The Fires of Compromise
by Boggy
Summary: Link, having regained his lost seven years, finds work as a tavern boy in Hyrule Market. When fires threaten to topple Hyrule's economy, Link is thrust into the unfamiliar world of politics to save not only his job, but the reputation of his future queen.
1. Prologue: From Then to Now

Author's Notes: With so many recycled plotlines in the Zelda universe, I decided to write my **own** interpretation and redeem the fandom. I'll bore holes into my eyes if I read one more fanfic with Link acting like a spastic teenager. One of the most humble and dignified leads in gaming history, and we somehow manage to "fudge him up." Behold the brilliance of the fanfiction community.

In any case, this story focuses on Link from **The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time**. Hyrule has been restored, and Link, having regained his lost seven years, struggles against the conspiracies of fate to lead an honest life. I'll warn you ahead of time that, while romance is subtle, I do support the pairing of LinkxZelda. If you prefer LinkxMalon or yaoi pairings, and take offense to any pairing but, then I suggest finding alternative reading material.

I can't say, as of yet, how long this story will be. It depends on which ideas change, which ideas remain the same, and which ideas disappear altogether. It will, however, span several chapters, though I promise to update as regularly as possible.

Feel free to contact me with any questions or concerns you may have. As always, comments are appreciated. Thanks.

Disclaimer:** The Legend of Zelda** © Shigeru Miyamoto and Nintendo.

**The Fires of Compromise  
Prologue: From Then to Now**  
By Boggy

If you asked a man to define excellence, to define what it is that makes men great, isn't it best you first define the character of the man? And is it better to ask a man who's achieved that greatness? Or a man who's watched greatness fall, watched the excellence pulled from his fingertips and thrown to the flame?

What is it man would say? Is it fame? Glory? Is it boundless riches, infinite power? Is it titles or fancy clothes, wisdom or a gold-plated plaque? Or is it something as simple as living an honest life, standing by your beliefs, earning pay for a hard day's work? That perhaps, just maybe, not all heroic deeds are "dungeons and dragons," but a stark realization that the simplest task or chore, if performed correctly, is of even greater power than the mightiest sword.

The men of Hyrule would say, "When we find a man of excellence, we'll tell you."

For Hyrule was a land of legends, stories, ancient parables. So-called "men of excellence" existed only in childhood tales. Heroes and villains, "good" versus "evil," knights in shining armor and a damsel in distress—timeless elements of storytelling used to entertain the young and inspire the old.

Taverns housed the most colorful of stories. Most, if not all, were exaggerations of veteran drunks and aspiring adventurers hoping to charm their attractive serving wench. It seemed infeasible for intoxicated men to conceive such creative thought. And yet, stories thrived in its inebriated atmosphere, alcohol the very fuel of imagination.

At thirteen, Link was restricted to the workers' quarters near the back entrance. He wasn't old enough to serve, nor drink. Link could only observe, at best, through the cracks in the wood of the kitchen door, fascinated by the colorful clientele of the pub.

From his post, Link followed the wayward eyes of men trailing the curves of voluptuous women. Some would wink or smile or strut. Others would slap or scold or splatter drinks. All the while, onlookers gulped their drinks down in long swigs, toasting their jugs in merriment.

It was puzzling to Link, who worked the early morning hours, sheltered from the chaos of the night. The crisp morning air would pour in through the tavern doors, eradicating the stale stench of booze and lust. He swept floors, washed tables, and delivered supplies to neighboring businesses. It wasn't what you would call a "glamorous job," but anything was better than living in the streets.

Besides, living in the Market meant living near the palace. And living near the palace meant living near the Princess. And with his seven years restored, and Hyrule back to its prosperous, regal self, he and Zelda could be as they had always meant to be.

And he took advantage at every opportunity.

Zelda used his frequent visits to the castle as a way of schooling him in politics and economics. It seemed she had spent her entire life deliberating, arguing, searching for the alternative, and made a point to teach Link the same. It never crossed his mind to ask why.

But it wasn't just Zelda he enjoyed. There was something familiar in his return to the palace, something nostalgic. He remembered sneaking in as a child—his "first self" as he called it—seeing her turn, smelling the palace soil, watching the sun pour in through the stained glass windows of the court. And when he saw her face and smelt the soil and saw the sun rise over the eastern sky, he knew where it was he belonged.

Link never returned to the Kokiri Forest. It was too hard and too far in the past for him to rekindle a bond with his former Kokiri brethren. With a silent farewell to his forested beginnings, Link volunteered his services at Lon Lon Ranch, in exchange for room and board. Talon agreed, grateful for the extra hand. Link was hired immediately, his chores ranging from herding cows to carrying firewood to patching damaged rooftops.

Malon had been all too pleased with the development, attaching herself to Link instantly. But what Link considered a simple "friendship" was turned into something far more complicated.

There was always some miscommunication between them. Whether it was a newly purchased dress or the shape of the moon, Link never seemed to say the right thing. Her dresses were "fine," the moon "clear," but to Malon, everything was "soooooo romantic."

What was "soooooo romantic," Link couldn't tell. A dress on Malon looked the same as any other, and the moon was the same as the moon had always been. What did Malon, a farming girl, care about clothes or shoes? Talon needed help with the horses, the cattle, the cuccos, the land—with all the work to be done, who had time to stare at the moon?

Not that she was entirely to blame. Link was a soldier, a man of servitude, and "life on the farm" simply couldn't be. Not for him. He'd missed Zelda, missed Hyrule Market. There was simply somewhere else he'd rather been.

So, in the best interest of everyone, Link parted ways with Lon Lon Ranch.

And thus began Link's virulent career as a tavern boy.


	2. Chapter 1: A Dress of Soft Blue

Author's Notes: I wrote most of this chapter listening to the "Tarm Ruins" theme from **The Legend of Zelda: Oracle of Seasons**. It's so haunting, as if I've lost myself in its wickedness, and simultaneously, its sublimity. I've tried many times to put that melody to prose, and yet I fail, as words hardly—no, cannot do it justice. I use it to reach a thinking both absurd and profound, for which a description is so vague and distorted, it hardly seems suited a description at all. I don't see how any of this makes sense, but nonetheless, I've used its bewitching tune as a structure/inspiration for the atmosphere of the piece.

And at that, I'm happy to announce the arrival of the first official chapter for **The Fires of Compromise**. I received several kind reviews for the prologue, which turned my fly-by-night one-shot into an on-going work. Honestly, I never expected such a positive response for a series so overwhelmed by pitiful storytelling. Hopefully, this will shine as a "diamond in the rough" for frustrated fanfic goers.

My story remains "T" rated—for the moment. I haven't decided what direction the plot will take, or how severe the situation (i.e. overall atmosphere of the piece) will become as I further the story. I will, however, keep you informed as each new installment is released.

Oh, and on a side note, the "chapter title" has nothing to do with the actual "chapter."

As always, feel free to contact me with any questions or concerns you may have. Reviews are most appreciated. Thanks.

Disclaimer:** The Legend of Zelda** © Shigeru Miyamoto and Nintendo.

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**The Fires of Compromise  
Chapter 1: A Dress of Soft Blue**  
By Boggy

"Another fire broke out this morning."

"Again?"

"Who was it this time?"

"The Bombchu Shop."

"That's the third business in two months…"

"It's a bit suspicious if you ask me. What are the guards doing to stop this?"

"Humph! Castle guards nothin'! Sounds like the Devils' work to me!"

"Nonsense. It's the middle of summer; we have reports of fire every year."

"Say what ye will! There be black magic afoot!"

"Quiet, fool! You're scaring the children!"

"Devils, I tell you! Devils!"

Link listened as a group of villagers passed, their faces flushed with panic. The Market had fallen victim to a series of disastrous fires, all targeted towards the town's major businesses. There were no reports of injuries, and buildings could be replaced, but the townspeople questioned their safety, and the guards did little to calm their fears.

With three fires in less than three months, the Market was entering a dangerous trend.

Someone was attacking Hyrule's economy.

Forsaking his stack of wooden crates, Link hopped to the ground and resumed his stroll, leaving the villagers to worry amongst themselves. Link surveyed these "huddles" as a means of keeping informed, relaying his findings to Princess Zelda, who insisted she know the "in and outs" of the kingdom's everyday rustic. It was an easy task, considering no one, least of all the castle guards, suspected Link, a tavern-boy, the casual consort and undercover spy of the untouchable Princess Zelda. It was an edge Zelda used to her advantage—exploiting the naivety of her colleagues and alleged "superiors" to structure the palace as she saw fit. If underminding rules and etiquette meant peace and prosperity for Hyrule, then overstepping the bounds of nobility was a price she'd gladly pay.

She was ruthless, really.

But with wisdom came an unfathomable isolation, a knowledge that few could be trusted and even fewer relied upon, and that the essence of hope lied within the loyal eyes and arms of a boy no older, and scarcely bigger, than herself. And while she loved her father, he often lacked the "better judgment," so aptly named, when protecting the people against unseen forces.

It may have been why, in the past, Zelda had snuck Link to her bedchambers, begging he keep her company through the night, her tiny frame huddled against his own in the darkness of the twilight hours. She would sleep against his chest, calm and comfortable and without concern. Though a strange request, Link knew no better, and would stay with her till morning.

Months had passed since they last shared her bedding. As children, it was innocent. As children approaching maturity, it was scandalous. It was too tempting, too risky. He assumed she would never ask again, though part of him couldn't help but wonder, or perhaps hope, if the thought, ludicrous as it was, ever crossed her mind.

If she asked, he would undoubtedly comply, not because of a lack of control, but because it went against his very nature to deny her. He wondered if it weren't the will of the Triforce of Courage.

Link was fairly certain he would meet his end at the executioner's block.

His reconnaissance complete, Link tapped his boot lightly against the ground, absently brushing the sleeve of his shirt. He'd finished his morning chores, and the Boniface would have no work for him till later in the evening when customers arrived.

On an ordinary day, Link would wander outside the town, visiting the graves at Kakariko Village, or paying his respects at the Temple of Time. They were morbid habits, which the Boniface discouraged. He'd made attempts to try other things—visiting the Gorons, besting the Gerudos, swimming in Lake Hylia…

But his thoughts were inexplicably drawn to the Temple's song, his past a despicable scar of vengeance, retribution, and loss. His triumphs, forgotten by all save the Princess and himself, had dissipated with the passing of the sages, who guarded their respective temples against the tainted hands of the foul. And while peace was worth any forgotten good deed, Link felt shunned, dismissed, his existence in either era, be it past or future, irrelevant in light of Hyrule's restored glory.

His only comfort was the Princess, her bewitching image an echo in his mind. His body moved involuntarily at her command, and he noted, with an unnamed emotion, that if and when she sent him to hell, he would go, as ordered, with nothing less than an iron will to complete his task.

Avoiding children, the occasional cucco, and head pats from the old, Link reached the Market gates, stopping only to admire the palace in the distance. He ignored the guards at either post, continuing on to the dirt path used by ranchers and traders for transporting goods to castle storage.

It was no surprise how intruders—both harmless and intuitive—could breach security as they neared the castle. Hyrule's guards were lazy and undisciplined due to inadequate training and a prolonged period of peace. It was a foolish direction for leadership, with a kingdom of bountiful resources, to neglect its line of defense.

Making his way past the eastern wall and through the outer gate, Link passed, with a tinge of arrogance, the surrounding guards, his feet light as fireflies against the earth. As he rounded the corner, Link half expected Talon to appear, snoozing against a crate of Lon Lon Milk. To his relief, Talon was nowhere to be found, nor was his tenacious daughter, Malon. Link was alone to carry out his mischief, and he did so, most discreetly, until reaching the Inner Court.

No one, save Zelda, was allowed entry to the courtyard. It was her sanctuary, a place used to sort her thoughts and spy on noblemen through hushed eyes and half spoken whispers. If Zelda was summoned, a guard was to stand at the courtyard's edge, begging her forgiveness, and requesting her presence—usually at the behest of her father—in the Great Hall.

But there was no such summon today. Only Link awaited her command, flexing his fingers against the burning sensation in his left hand. The Triforce of Courage resonated with the Triforce of Wisdom, its power imprinted into his very skin. To conceal its mark, Link gloved his left hand and wrist, forever conscious of its blemish. Zelda too cloaked her hand, though in the privacy of the court, her skin shone, uninhibited beneath the sun's rays.

Quietly, he approached her, his eyes fixated on the tresses brushing against her back. She leaned, lazily so, against the ground, her hands at either side, and her feet bare and pale against the crisp viridian of the grass. Her fingers twitched lightly, pained by a stinging sensation in her right hand.

She felt it too.

"You see that man there, with my father?" Instinctively, Zelda began her inquiry. "A diplomat, from a neighboring kingdom, one with exceptional planting fields. Hyrule has an abundant supply of fuel—oils and the like—and this man, hoping to profit from our bounty, is offering my father an X number of plots for our nation's finest coal."

She paused, tracing a nail against her chin. As of late, Zelda had made a point to inform Link of her father's diplomatic conquests. It was more than idle chatter, he knew. But Link was a poor judge of deciphering her hidden agendas.

"Did you bring your ocarina?" Zelda turned to face him, her commanding demeanor replaced with friendliness and a smile.

Link nodded, pulling the instrument from his pouch. Music was his only real talent, and knowing this, Zelda had given him the Ocarina of Time, her family's treasured heirloom. In return, he amused Zelda with soothing lullabies and melodic tunes, some the creation of his own mind, others he'd committed to memory. He could play most anything, but the ocarina held sentiment for him, and for Zelda too.

She relaxed at the edge of a shallow pool, one of two lining either side of the court. Link sat beside her, ocarina in hand. Zelda noted, with amusement, Link's serious expression, as he racked his brain for the appropriate song. Some were stories, others meaningless hums. Yet most were secrets locked in the ethereal fantasy of their past, images of fog, mist, and other shapeless figures of the unseen.

He played as she thought—a lonely tune of ancient ruins and hidden passages, vine-encrusted walls with golden keys, bizarre patterns etched in stone, a thousand mysteries bouncing in the darkness.

Was the music so intoxicating? Or was Link's undeniable emergence into manhood the source of her intrigue? Were his charms so difficult to evade?

She leaned forward as he continued, unaware of their close proximity. She laughed at his immersion, his complete detachment from the physical world as his fingers brushed the keyholes. More importantly, she laughed at her contentment, knowing that he played only for her.

Sensing warmth, Link opened his eyes to the intense stare of the Princess. Her gaze had intimidated him once, but as he grew, he found himself more and more drawn to their inticing blue. He'd never considered himself "possessive," but at the sound of her voice and the curves of her dress, he resigned himself to an irrefutable fact:

Zelda was, in its smallest measurement, his and his alone.

Finished, Link paused to begin again, but stopped at Zelda's touch.

"Are the rumors true?"

Her eyes, intense with passion, were replaced with fear. She seemed disappointed, even a little sad, at interrupting his song. There were moments, overcome with weakness, that she had wished for only this. For she and Link, for the eternity, to press forward into the night, burying her responsibilities in the soils of her garden. Though come morning, reality always bloomed, unveiling the harsh truths of her esteemed position in life.

But how she had wished...

Link nodded, unsure of his own voice.

"Then Hyrule is, once again, the victim of fate's misfortune."

She sighed, revealing a tinge of frustration, before mustering the energy to stand. Immediately, Link sprung to his feet, lending her his arm as she balanced her weight against his body. He held her steady as she smoothed her dress, thin as it was, and straightened her hair. She placed a hand against his chest.

"I suspect foul play, though I have no proof." Her voice was low, tempting. "The guards are brainless at best, and I cannot approach my father without something… tangible. If I am to prove these fires of unnatural birth, than I must find unnatural evidence to match its cause!"

Link recognized the concentration in her tone, the determined arch of her brow. He could almost visualize the plan boiling in her mind.

A plan in which he was sure to be implemented.

She clutched his arm, as if too weak to stand.

"Link..."

There it was.

"Have you ever been to the soldiers' barracks?"


	3. Chapter 2: Men Belong In the Washhouse

Author's Notes: Wow—this chapter took FOREVER to write, and I've no idea why. Actually, I **do** know why, but it's not something I'm willing to admit. It's a little longer than the Prologue and Chapter 1 (but not offensively so). I try to stay on-topic, but my thoughts tend to drift, and I start rambling. Not only that, but I'm in the editing/revision stage for WEEKS, double-checking grammar, spelling, plot, characterization, etc.

My feelings for this chapter are mixed, since it went in an entirely different direction than I'd originally planned. The Princess was set to make an appearance, but I made some adjustments and everything changed.

Romance is rather **boring**, so I've kept the relationship between Link and Zelda interesting, and as "non-clichéd" as possible. Link remains a "tool" of sorts for Zelda, though she respects him as a person, with the realism and pragmatism expected from someone of her station. Link is very much aware of their difference in status, and will maintain a "subservient" attitude for the duration of the story. He understands he is being "used," but not in the malevolent sense—only in the best interest of Hyrule. I wish to portray Zelda as practical and realistic, as opposed to heartless and manipulative (to certain extents), which I feel is a contradiction of her portrayal in the games.

Disclaimer: **The Legend of Zelda** © Shigeru Miyamoto and Nintendo.

**The Fires of Compromise  
Chapter 2: Men Belong In the Washhouse**  
By Boggy

It was ironic, really. For years he'd perfected the art of evading Hyrule's guards—tracing their steps, following their movements, analyzing their routines. It was nothing more than a study of patterns. Memorize their patterns, exploit their weaknesses, and slip through the breaks. Predictability was the Achilles heel of even the strongest army's defense.

But with Zelda's permission, he roamed freely throughout the palace. He would not be chased nor questioned. He would walk, anxious but reassured, through the halls of Hyrule's "impenetrable" castle, his true intentions unbeknownst to all, save Zelda and himself.

"_The soldiers train until dusk," she informed. "But the soldiers are slack in these peaceful days, so you're bound to find groups scattered along the barracks, gossiping amongst themselves, behaving as fools." _

Link eyed the shadows as he rounded a corner, mindful of the hall's emptiness. Sneaking inside was simple. But the castle's corridors were endless, and difficult to differentiate from one hall to the next. He'd used dozens of maps and blueprints in his travels, but the vastness of the castle's interior was stifling. Zelda had given him basic instructions to navigate the castle, using side passages to avoid traffic. With any luck, he'd avoid confrontation, and arrive unnoticed, at the soldier's barracks.

He was of no consequence and could not be recognized, but the anxiety Link felt at exposing himself, especially to Hylian soldiers, was made more and more apparent with the quickening pace of his pulse. Zelda had told him to "play the part," ruffling his hair and reminding him that servants work with speed and diligence, and without question or hesitation. Her words lingered at the back of his mind, as he recited—to himself, of course—her instructions as he neared the dormitories.

"_The guards will think you a servant boy collecting linens and sheets for the weekly cleaning. Use this opportunity to eavesdrop—they're liable to let something slip about their last investigation."_

A pair of servant girls—possibly Zelda's handmaidens—flittered past, gossiping and chittering and bouncing about. They were Zelda's age, relatively so, young and fair and properly poised. But they were careless in their mannerisms, a careless known only to those free of the pressures of ruling a kingdom.

They smiled as he passed, winking and giggling with feminine wile. Link recognized it from stories in the tavern—men complaining of their wives complaining of their habits of complaining of their wives. He'd grown tired of their fussing and nagging over their wives' fussing and nagging, and left the stories to run their course, choosing instead to wash glasses, sweep floors, and clean countertops.

He had not the patience for tomfoolery.

As he pressed onward, the handmaidens' clatter grew distant. Part of him marveled at the simplicity of traipsing the palace halls, convinced that, with the hustle and bustle of "palace life," no one in the castle paid any real attention to anyone else.

He took a right, fiddling with the chain at his neck, and the key attached at its end.

"_Take this. It's the key to the Central Tower." She paused, leveling his gaze with a triumphant smirk. "…I stole it from the custodian's purse."_

The Central Tower—not to be confused with the Keep—was beyond the barracks. Thieves, rebels, and other filth of society were at ground level, in the Bastille, while provisions, battlements, and most importantly, records were stored at the tower's canopy. Amongst the records were documented papers pertaining to unsettled land disputes, property claims, death writs, and marriage licenses. Evidence was stored here as well, which would, after careful examination, be presented before the King.

This was, if possible, Link's second objective—steal inside the upper chambers and report his findings to Princess Zelda. She'd admitted to "lacking tact" in her dealings with the King, her assertive attitude in stark contrast to his stubborn resolve of twenty years. Her forthright criticism was "disrespectful"—emphasized so by her father's Counsel—and no one, least of all his own daughter, would uproot his authority.

It was this very obstinance that prevented her from partaking in matters of the state, unless otherwise supervised by King Harkinian. And it was this very obstinance that prevented her from visiting the Central Tower, and examining the evidence for herself.

…Which in the end, worked for the better. Link was far more suited to the task of "espionage." The princess was a walking target; Link was a nameless nobody. Zelda had admitted to envying Link's anonymity, and his ability to "come and go" at his discretion. But the life of a princess was what it was. Besides, she'd found, to a degree, ways of maintaining her independence.

In short, her father had ways of controlling her curiosity, and she had ways of breaking them.

"_Observe, but do not touch. The guards will know if you've tampered with evidence." She tucked the chain beneath his shirt. "If you're caught, tell them I've sent you to fetch legal documents on my behalf." She paused. "I am, after all, forbidden to enter the Tower…"_

Link ducked along another corner, intimidated by the enormity of the castle. The forest was flowing and smooth, where the palace was harsh and unforgiving. Bathed in its cruelty, Link covered his heart, worried his soul might somehow be infected by the emptiness that saturated its walls.

At the final turn, Link stood before a long, decorative corridor. The doors were adorned with golden shields, each bearing the mark of the elusive Triforce, the mythical Phoenix as its vermilion centerpiece. A mauve carpet lined the floors, bearing homage to Hyrule's "elite" defenders. The nation's flag hung overhead, as tribute for their "sacrifices" to ensure its kingdom's safety.

Near the end, a soldier emerged, flabby-armed, thin-chested, the floor creaking under the weight of his armor. In his hands were sword and bow; at his back, a quiver of arrows. He was obviously marching, or at least, making the attempt to march, to the training field. Link stifled a laugh, bemused by the soldier's crude stride and clumsy countenance, thankful for Hyrule's reign of peace, and of course, the blessings of Nayru, Din, and his patron, Farore.

A few doors down, at that exact moment, a woman emerged, a basket in hand for collecting linens. With a servant's skill, she closed the door with one hand, while balancing her basket with the other. The soldier, on the other hand, paid no attention to the approaching woman, and collided headfirst, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

Link rushed forward pushing laundry aside, lifting the basket from the soldier's head, and helping them each—the woman worker first, of course—upright. The woman was dazed, but luckily, her supplies had taken full force of the blow. The soldier sputtered, partly shocked though mostly embarrassed, humbled but unharmed. He lifted himself, stammering his apologies as he gathered his equipment from the floor. The woman nodded, letting him go about his business with a smile. All was well. No harm done.

"Thank you for your help." She turned to Link and smiled, kindness in her eyes.

He smiled in return, warmed by the tenderness of her face. There was something calm and motherly in her voice, a sort of embodiment of understanding and love. It was strange—comforting, but strange. The Kokiri had no "mothers," only the Great Deku Tree, "Father of the Forest," to care for them. But Link, even in his earliest years, had felt "incomplete." He had never known why or where or when it was these "feelings" first surfaced. He'd once asked the Know-It-All brothers if they too felt the emptiness he described, but it was not in the Kokirin nature to question the unknown.

When he'd learned the truth of his mother, he'd wanted so much to remember—the scent of her hair, the hue of her eyes, the feel of her skin. But he couldn't. She existed only in a story. He had no memories, no dreams. Only the tales of an ancient tree, and the bloody prophecy of a hero of fate.

"Are you alright?" she asked, breaking his reverie.

"Hmm?" He jumped, his eyes wide.

She laughed. "You must be Milady's new servant."

Link blinked.

"You're wondering how I know? Milady said you'd be stopping by. I understand this is your first day? In that case, we'll start with the linens—they're easiest." She leaned forward, smoothing his hair. "So, tell me... What's your name?"

* * *

And so it began. As the woman worked, Link mimicked her movements, finding hands-on manipulation far simpler than a verbal listing of instructions. It was not a difficult task, but his inexperience tripled in light of her humble proficiency. She hummed as she worked, flicking her wrists here, tossing a sheet there, stopping only to admire his handiwork.

His determination swelled, unveiling the perfectionist in his fingertips. He focused on straightening creases, centering folds, and condensing layers. He noted the symmetrical perfection of her stack, her delicate hands twisting and tugging and contorting shapes, an unfathomable complexity for something as undeniably simple as bundling laundry.

The Princess would laugh at his romanticization of house-keeping.

The woman paused, several times, to pamper his efforts. Other boys might have found the woman's nurturing tiresome, but Link absorbed her praises with pride, unaccustomed to such effortless acceptance. He carried the heavier load, all the while memorizing her "hum" to use later as a song for his ocarina.

He listened as she spoke of festivities in the castle, and the upcoming banquets for visiting dignitaries. The whole of the palace's effort was poured into balls and parties, and as such, the workload per servant doubled to compensate for shortages of time, and conservation of resources. She admitted to recognizing only a small percentage of the castle's staff, though she herself had been a servant for nearly ten years.

She asked nothing personal in return, however, her questions shallow and non-specific. She seemed to purposefully avoid anything that revealed his association with the Princess. He was beginning to wonder if "collecting evidence" had anything to do with Zelda's "true" intentions.

They continued on, room to room, stopping only to deposit sheets and empty baskets. By their third trip, Link had bundled nearly four baskets of laundry, and had become all but infatuated with the woman servant's company. He had not, however, forgotten his mission, and as he neared the final room, Link strained his ears, hoping to make sense of the muffled voices from behind the door.

They entered, as would any diligent worker, with their eyes low and their bodies straight. The woman took the far end, near the door, pushing Link closer to the guards and their low-keyed conversation. She worked slowly, much slower than usual, preoccupied with something other than her subservient duties.

All at once Link realized—her behavior was no coincidence.

He matched her pace, inching closer, looking as unsuspicious as possible. They spoke of trivial things—attractive maids, unattractive maids, annoying roommates, their mutual dislike for the captain—none of which held any interest..

"Suitors are visiting the palace next week."

At this, Link's ears twitched.

"So soon? The Princess is very young."

"It's nothing final. Bothersome formalities—or so I've been told."

"Ha! They'll never marry HER off! She'll rule the country alone, if need be. Or take a consort. Whichever comes first."

The soldier furrowed his brow. "I'd give my life for Princess Zelda."

"As would I. But a contract of marriage would only be of benefit to the opposing country. What does any kingdom have that Hyrule cannot acquire itself?"

The soldier snorted. "An 'opposing' country. You speak as though the earth itself were at odds…"

"And why not?" he interrupted. "Pleasantries are a luxury for the weak. The last thing Hyrule needs is dead weight, especially with unexplainable fires breaking loose. We've our own problems to contend with, let alone those of an entire nation too penniless to support themselves."

"My, my. Aren't we the politician?"

"I'm only saying what everyone's thinking. These fires are dangerous, and we've neither lead nor light to guide us."

"What of the evidence from the last fire?"

"Of Nayru's beauty…"

"_I_found it rather strange." It was his turn to interrupt. "What would a toy bell, a child's plaything, be doing near The Bombchu Shop? A nigh ten feet away, without a hair of soot or grime!"

A third soldier chimed in. "We visited neighboring houses, hoping someone would recognize the item, but alas, none came to claim it."

"Can you blame them?"

"Well, it's an odd find, nonetheless."

"Oh, bloody hell. It's just a toy. I think the lot of you are reading far too much into this."

The soldiers continued their bickering, unaware of Link or the woman servant's presence. And though his hands continued their work, Link's mind was elsewhere. He'd brainstormed one or two scenarios in his head, none of which included the use of a child. He'd suspected arson, a belligerent foreigner, even rebellious common folk from Kakariko Village, soured by one of the King's recent political conquests. But a "toy bell?"

Link didn't have time to ponder the thought, as the woman servant appeared, abruptly, tugging at his sleeve and motioning towards the door. Link followed, obediently, out the room, and into the hallways just outside the barracks.

The woman said nothing, gathering her things and preparing for their final trip to the Washhouse. He followed suit, watching her closely as she organized her basket accordingly. Link was tempted to speak, and caught her eyes to do so, but the woman walked forward and kissed his cheek before a word was spoken.

"The Princess tells me you like milk." She smiled that infectious smile. "Let's drop off these linens and head to the kitchen. You must be thirsty."

Link simply smiled in return.


	4. Chapter 3: Wagon Parts

Author's Notes: WHAT a chapter this turned out to be! I had NO IDEA what I was writing when I went into this, but it just sort of **evolved** the longer I typed, and the more I realized I knew where I was going. I separated the chapter into two parts, and as such, it ended up considerably longer than my previous chapters—**almost three to four pages longer, to be exact**. The first half ties up the events of Chapter 2, while the second half pushes us towards what I consider the "core" of the story. I realize I've been somewhat "tangent-oriented" throughout the fic, though I promise, everything comes into play at some point or another.

Keep in mind, this story focuses not only on a rising conflict/danger within Hyrule itself, but the deepening/varying relationships between Zelda, Link, the Boniface, etc. I may be mentioning this a bit late, but **The Fires of Compromise **is somewhat a "day in the life of" coupled with an adventure story suited to the Zelda universe. Characterization is EXTREMELY important in my writing, and as such, I tend to focus on character thought and interaction more than I would other aspects of the story. But not to worry—I try to keep a fair balance, despite.

And as a side note, you will NEVER hear me describe Link as "muscular" and/or "tanned." I DESPISE both, as they are overused and seemingly idiotic, considering Link roams Hyrule fully clothed from head to foot at ALL times. [/end rant]

I'd also like to give my sincerest gratitude to all reviewers, who've left nothing but constructive and encouraging comments since the story's birth. I appreciate the continual feedback and support, and will work hard to ensure **The Fires of Compromise **lives up to viewer expectation. Many thanks!

Disclaimer: **The Legend of Zelda** © Shigeru Miyamoto and Nintendo.

**The Fires of Compromise  
Chapter 3: Wagon Parts**By Boggy

The tavern, whose kitchen was of considerable size, paled in comparison to that of the castle's, whose cupboards alone were beyond anything Link deemed reasonably measurable. Cups of the purest glass, plates of the finest silver, wood carved from the rarest oak—each a finery proportionate to that of the palace's most prestigious guest.

It was laughable, really, that such extremes were taken to accommodate to the "needs" of one such King Harkinian and Princess Zelda of Hyrule. It was almost as if royalty needed audacity and superfluousness to maintain the illusion of importance.

Indeed, it was not a life for the faint of heart.

But for simpleton Link, a quiet drink and good company were enough. With the linens washed and the baskets away, he relaxed, amazed but unperturbed by the busyness of the servants.

They were efficient and quick. No doubt the workers cooked and cleaned hours upon end to serve the overwhelming masses of the palace. It seemed their energy knew no limits, running to and fro, carrying pots, chopping vegetables, and washing tables. There were piles upon piles of dishes, not a bare countertop in sight. They had no stools or chairs. Link had plopped himself on a barrel, his legs hanging several inches off the ground. He sipped at a glass of Lon Lon Milk, savoring its rich taste.

All of Hyrule's milk was produced and delivered by Lon Lon Ranch. Talon delivered a weekly shipment to the palace, though milk wasn't popular amongst royals, Zelda included. She preferred fine wines—red or white or rosé, sparkling or vintage. In fact, wine was one of few things Link knew her to generally _enjoy_. Zelda's life was mostly formality and poise, but she seemed genuinely content partaking of good foods and good drinks.

He wasn't much for wine himself. Zelda had offered bottles of the palace's private wines, from grapes grown in the palace's private vineyard. But he'd always refused, labeling wine as a "morally corrupt" substance. She'd laughed at his disgust, saying "We're not drunkards in a pub, Link." It upset him at her ridicule of the bar, and she'd ushered the wine away, stricken with guilt. "Don't pay me any mind, Link," she'd pleaded. "Forgive my shortcomings, and be happy."

Link was happy, and he'd waved her worries away with a smile. The tavern was what it was; there was no disguising its lewd behaviors and immoral clientele. Still, it was kind of the Boniface to take him in, and while not the most "respectable" profession, he'd found satisfaction in working for pay.

He swallowed the last of his milk, setting the glass at the edge of the barrel. Like clockwork, a nameless servant collected the cup, stopping only to marvel at Link's eyes and ears.

"What a pretty child," she cooed. "And such a fair complexion!"

Living under the canopies of the Kokiri Forest had left Link susceptible to the sun. His tunic and leggings had kept him protected, though he'd never liked camping in open ground. Now, in his adolescence, he'd outgrown his Kokirin robes, outfitting himself in brown leathered pants and matching shirt. Without the Kokirin garb, he felt more "at home" with the Hylians. Which was important, considering he was one.

"Well," the woman continued her doting, "would you like some cheese or cookies? Perhaps another glass of milk?"

Link politely declined, offering instead a hand with the in-house chores. She shook her head and laughed, petting his ears as she left.

With the servants piddling away, Link turned his attention to the woman worker, whose immaculate hands folded napkins in preparation for the evening dinner. She had stopped, twice, to straighten his shirt, brushing an imaginary dust mite before smoothing the creases in his sleeve.

"You're surprisingly well-kempt for a boy."

Link inwardly smiled.

With the last of the napkins in place, she straightened Link's shirt for a third and final time. "You're scheduled for an audience with the Princess. She's asked that I escort you to the courtyard."

* * *

With the kisses and pinches of the kitchen, Link followed the woman servant back through the castle corridors, amazed still by the ease with which he navigated the palace. Men and women, none of whom Link recognized, traveled with similar ease—like a tourist attraction for nobles!

It was no wonder, really, why Zelda was so easily kidnapped.

As they neared the Inner Court, Link was struck with the realization—or perhaps, horror—that he'd yet to visit the Central Tower, as instructed. He ran his fingers along the antiquated key, its metal tapping lightly against his chest as his feet kept pace with the woman servant's strides. In his hurriedness to the kitchen, Link had neglected to complete his duties, an oversight which reflected poorly on his performance. He prided himself in both accuracy and efficiency, especially in matters pertaining to the Royal Family.

"Servants work with speed and diligence…," as he recalled, "…and without question or hesitation." Those were her exact words.

Would she be upset?

Amidst his worries, they arrived—far sooner than Link would have liked—at the courtyard. He was asked to wait at the entrance, while the woman servant continued on to inform Zelda of their arrival. Watching their exchange was nerve-racking. The woman would speak, Zelda would nod...

What could she be saying?

Upon her return, the woman knelt, bracing her hands against his arms and scanning his form with—was it pride? He caught something in her eye, a brief fascination, a distracted sadness, something she'd hidden away till now. He was overcome with an emptiness he could neither name nor place, only sympathize with in an effort to pinpoint an emotion so often manifested in his nightmares and dreams.

She smiled, erasing the mystery of her eyes, straightening his shirt once more before kissing his cheek.

"The Princess will see you now." She paused, sensing a break in her voice. "Practice your folding for when it is we meet again. I will expect improvement."

And without another word, she stood and left.

Link approached the Princess, an uneasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. The setting sun caught the colors of her silk dress, her hands still and her eyes steady. He blinked, torn between his unexplainable sorrow for the woman, and his insuppressible appetence for the Princess.

He stood quietly, perplexed by the stoicism in her face.

"She is barren."

Link flinched.

Zelda's emotions were unknown, her voice calm, her countenance forthright. She seemed neither moved nor bothered by the curtness of her words, which Link found simultaneously cold and powerful.

Should he express his condolences, or remain silent?

He chose silence.

Zelda noted his reaction before continuing. "The palace is innocuous, no? Hundreds of people, countless activities, and yet, as lifeless as the frozen sea."

She stepped forward, and with the slightest flick, retrieved the bronzed key at his chest. The chain, however, she tucked beneath his shirt, patting it lightly to accentuate its ownership.

"I was a bit concerned sending you alone, but as always, you managed." She smiled, her head high. "Though I'm sure my handmaiden was of considerable help."

Link lowered his gaze, ashamed of accepting praise for a job half-finished. He opened his mouth to explain, but his apologies were cut short.

"I changed my mind."

Link lifted his head.

"It was an ambitious plan—ill-conceived and poorly executed." She turned, her profile facing the wall. "It isn't the first time I've allowed my aggression to take control of my better judgment…" There was a long pause. "…And I promised never to make that mistake twice."

Guilt oozed from Zelda's every pore. Hyrule had been set right again, thanks to the combined efforts of Link and the Seven Sages, but Zelda would never wholly forgive herself. Hers was the very hand that spinned the wheel, setting into motion what would eventually lead to the near destruction of Hyrule under Ganon's tyrannical rule. He had gathered the Spiritual Stones, true enough, but Link was nothing more than a servant at her command. Without her guiding light, Link was powerless to act. Yet, without Link's aid, Zelda could have never freed the Sages and banished Ganon to the Sacred Realm. Wisdom was her trump card, and she'd played a poor hand.

And she died every day because of it.

He reached out to touch her arm, his conscience screaming with the urge to console. But the Princess turned, sharply, her back facing the wall once more, and her eyes stern with pained composure.

"A queen has no weaknesses, Link. Nor does her king."

He pondered her words for but a moment, before withdrawing his hand and kneeling low. She stepped forward, in turn, her waistline brushing the edges of his hair, her fingers grazing the sides of his face.

"It's best you return to town before nightfall. My handmaiden will see fit to inform me of today's findings."

Link straightened, posturing himself to mimic Zelda's formality. He faced her, his mind struggling with what was right, what was proper, what was mad, and whether there was any real difference between the three. He wondered if men had thought of her, looked at her, dreamt of her as he had, or if the power of the Triforce weren't somehow manipulating his senses into a realm of impossible possibles only the Devil himself rejoiced. And if the Devil rejoiced, what of his own conscience?

He stole one last glance before bowing low—his gaze trailing the hem of her dress—and making the return trip to Hyrule Market.

Shivering, she watched him leave, struck by a sudden chill. Night was upon her, and she hoped, for what little it was worth, Link's return to Market was a wary one. The town was relatively safe, the occasional riffraff notwithstanding, and Link was more than capable of protecting himself. Even still, she worried, having never fully shaken her memories of the future, and the caution that came with its immortality. Nor could she shake the prophetic brisk tingling her spine, warning her of an impending, inevitable misfortune she'd neither knowledge nor understanding of.

But this was hardly the time for timidity; there was work to be done.

The woman servant reappeared, just as Link's image was lost to the distance. She stood before Zelda, her eyes low to emphasize respect.

The Princess folded her arms, inquisitively. "Well?"

"He was… hesitant at first, but with assistance, his confidence grew. The palace intimidates him—its size, its structure, its movements," she warned. "He found his way well enough, but the palace is more than crimson doors and winding halls. He will not adapt overnight."

Zelda nodded. "As I expected. And the workers?"

"He is well-received by our staff," she beamed. "He is… identifiable, someone the workers can relate to."

"An important consideration, indeed."

"A characteristic on which his exceptionalism is based," the woman added.

Zelda ruffled her dress, thoughtfully.

"Shall I make the necessary arrangements, then?"

The Princess shook her head. "No. We will wait. As it stands, we've more pressing matters to attend to."

* * *

"What did I tell ya'?"

"Hey! HEY! Leave the tip and shut your lip, will ya'?"

"I TOLD you that guy was no good, didn't I? DIDN'T I?"

"Ah, here it comes…"

"I TOLD you he was gonna' run outta' here the SECOND he got a better opportunity. And whadya know? …No, wait! Wait! Do YOU see him hangin' around anywhere? Huh? HUH?"

"Go home, Clarice. You're drunk."

"Look at ya'! Yer draggin' children off the streets!"

"Nobody's draggin' nothin' from nowhere! He's a hired employee, paid more than what he's worth!"

"You keep treatin' yer help that way, and you won't have nothin' left!"

Clarice, a regular, was drunk as usual.

Link watched as she and the Boniface exchanged scowls, arguing over a hired hand who'd quit prior to the evening shift. He'd been offered a job at one of the developing businesses nearby, a pottery shop just outside the castle gates. Link had never known the man intimately. But no man was foolish enough to reject better pay, friendlier working conditions, and reasonable hours, a concept which had cost the Boniface his second bartender in the past three months.

With a skeleton crew, Link was thrown into the forefront of the evening rush, pouring drinks and waiting tables, despite Clarice's robust objections. Nevertheless, the Boniface was desperate, and it wasn't often soldiers "dropped in" for a drink.

The tavern was rough at night, the grittier crowd pouring in by the dozens for booze, women, booze, and a "night out with the guys." They were a "colorful" bunch, especially the women. He'd noticed the wayward eyes of more than a few ladies that night, trailing his form as he moved across the bar. It was unnerving, and he only hoped they'd turn their attention elsewhere.

"Don't tell me how to manage my employees!" The Boniface was louder now. "A woman's got no head for business!"

"You ass!" she squawked. "Who does the books 'round here, huh? HUH? Who oversees inventory at the end of the month, huh? HUH?" Clarice took another swig. "And to think—I do all that for free."

Link mentally sighed, all too accustomed to Clarice's tirades. Most of her "fits" were directed _at_ the Boniface, though she did love him. Not that the Boniface was a walk in the park. If Link had to live with him on a daily basis, he'd throw temper-tantrums too.

As the arguing pursued, Link felt the leer of an attractive woman, a strange perfume emanating from the adjoining table. She sat, legs crossed, her voice dripping with sensualism and the connotations of something carnal.

"Colorful atmosphere, hmm? "

Link "mmhmmed" in response, nodding slightly as he collected her empty drink.

Unfazed and annoyingly persistent, the woman continued. "You're… out of place, you know. With you here, I might as well live at the Royal Palace."

Link turned, for the first time that night, his brow thoughtful and attentive.

She stared in return, and as she smiled, he noticed the silken fabric of her clothes, the suggestiveness of its placement, and though it breathed of the same openness as Zelda's dress, he felt, for an instant, overtly offended.

"Is something wrong?" she smirked.

Before Link could answer, a drink flew across the bar. Bits of glass scattered along the floor, the Boniface masking his face with a serving tray. Clarice was on the opposing end, her face flushed with intoxication and her eyes filled with fire.

Whatever he'd said or done, it was obviously the wrong thing.

"Any half-wit can OPEN a bar! People'll drink booze if it pours out a Goron's ass!" she screamed. "The point is KEEPIN' it open!"

"Clarice!" The Boniface peered out from behind his "shield," his fingers trembling with uncertainty. "Go to my room and lie down! You're drunk!"

Clarice seemed to cease her ranting, as though struck with a sudden revelation. But within seconds, she grabbed a nearby drink, hurling the glass across the bar.

"I see how it is! I get it!" She snatched her satchel, flinging it wildly over customers' heads. "Give her a drink and she'll sleep with you anywhere!"

"Clarice!"

But she was gone, the silence emphasized by the swish of swinging doors.

The Boniface stood, tray in hand and his eyes wide. In all her fits, in every wild rampage, she had never _left_ the bar. She'd thrown drinks, swore, even slugged a customer. But she'd never up and walked out.

The pub was at a loss. They eyed the entrance with the hopes her lithe form were burst through and embrace the Boniface with forgiveness. If they could only catch a glimpse of her blonde hair peeking in through the storefront windows—surely she would return.

But there was no such Clarice, and the Boniface shivered, hard, torn between swallowing his pride, and chasing Clarice into the night.

He chose the next best thing.

"LINK!"

Link jumped, his tray tilting forward from the shock. He steadied himself, annoyed by the smirks of the attractive woman, and grateful he'd leveled the tray without flopping cold liquor onto the floor.

Clarice had made enough messes for one night.

"LINK! GET OVER HERE!"

Link sighed, dreading the Boniface's wrath, but pleased just the same to escape the woman, whose eyes followed his form from across the bar. He approached the Boniface, nervous, but attentive.

"Link…"

The Boniface paused, noting the curious stares of his customers. A few of the tables had doubled up, inching their chairs towards the front of the bar. He narrowed his eyes at the unwanted attention, nudging Link towards the door, his voice low.

"Eh…" He stuttered, running a hand through his bangs. "Ya' know, the tavern gets pretty crazy at night…."

Link nodded.

"Yer just a kid, ya' know, so I can't leave ya' alone to watch the place. Wouldn't be right, ya' know?"

Link nodded, again.

"But I… Eh… Can't have that half-minded woman roamin' the streets scarin' people…"

Link mentally sighed.

"So I, er, want ya' to bring her back… Bring her back to the pub, ya' know? Uh…" He paused a moment, unsure of himself. "…Make sure she's alright."

A few snickers surfaced, the air thick with muffled commentary and wayward giggles. The Boniface sneered, shooting dirty looks across the room. The gossiping continued, though Link, valuing his job, remained silent, the Boniface slinging swears all the way back to the bar. He glanced behind him, towards Link, motioning wildly with his hands.

"Link!" the Boniface screamed. "Get goin', will ya!"

* * *

And so, Link retired to Market, roaming the streets by torch. He sighed at the refreshing breath of the evening breeze, reveling in the crisp colors of the night. The stars were visible, despite the luminance of the city's lights. His ears twitched at the noises of the pub, its rowdiness the only signs of life in the otherwise silent city. How he wished, in that moment, he were sitting amongst the plains of Hyrule Field, Epona at his side, and the soothing sounds of a crackling fire fading into the void of violent, forgotten mystery.

He stole one moment, glancing towards the palace, wondering if Zelda had retired for the night. The gates leading to the service road were marked with guards, their forms stiff and unresponsive against the wilds of the twilight hour. He imagined their eyes, heavy and half-closed, hidden beneath the veil of their helms, oblivious to the whispers lurking from within the Temple of Time.

But Link pushed his musings aside, reminding himself of the task at hand. He rounded the nearest corner, in hopes of locating the elusive Clarice. It didn't take long; Link could hear her sobs a block away. Before long he spotted her, huddled against a stacking crate near the Bazaar. He approached, softly, the torch light forming an ethereal glow in the darkness of the alleyway.

She sniffled, hard, aware but unalarmed of Link's presence. He bent down, leveling his gaze with her own. She glanced at him in return, her face stricken with tears and her eyes glorified by the flickering flames.

"It… It isn't the bar, ya' know?" She sniffled, pulling her legs close. "It's just, men have ambitions. And ambitious men come in pieces, because they invest themselves—like a wagon disassembled for parts."

There was silence between them, a brisk wind rushing past, ruffling the edges of his hair. He held out a hand, imploring the woman with his eyes to follow him back to the tavern—to safety, to warmth, to reassurance. She considered the offer, but snorted instead, running a hand against the nape of her neck.

"Stupid ass," she fumed. "Figures he'd send the servin' boy out to fetch me."

Though visibly annoyed, Clarice was secretly relieved, and eventually—after a bit of prodding on Link's part—took his hand, allowing him to pull her into the safety of the open streets. She smiled, her tall form towering over Link's, her walk wobbly from the effects of the alcohol.

"Yer pretty cute, ya' know?" She steadied herself against his arm. "I see why the Boniface likes you."

Link said nothing, wondering what it was the Boniface would say in the seclusion of his quarters—his deepest, most private thoughts, and Clarice his only confidant. Clarice, he deduced, knew more of the Boniface's dreams, hopes, and fears than anyone, and most likely, more than anyone ever would. He imagined it brought the Boniface a strange sense of relief, despite the arguing, the misunderstandings, and the cruel words.

And it was in that moment Link was struck with an almost ironic realization:

Men would always have weaknesses, so long as women roamed the earth.

But before Link could bask in his realization, Clarice tugged at his shirt, pointing in the direction of the bar.

"Link! What's goin' on? What's all the commotion?"

Link turned his attention to the pub, a murderous glow emanating from across the way. People he recognized as customers were filing into the streets, an unfamiliar roar brewing against the sky.

"Ah…" Clarice's voice caught in her throat, her hands tightening.

Link stared, dumbstruck, his arm growing numb under the force of Clarice's grip.

They both knew.

The tavern had caught fire.


	5. Chapter 4: Empty Bottles

Author's Notes: I seriously considered bumping the story's PG-13 rating to M, due to an excess of language midway through the chapter. In fact, I'd considered bumping the rating if for no other reason than the chapter's offensive length—9 pages in Microsoft Works Word Processor! I'm completely exhausted, having read, edited, and re-read to the point where nothing and everything makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. And if that sentence makes ANY sense, congratulations to you, because at this stage, I'm at a loss for coherency.

To recap, last chapter, the audience was introduced to two rather flamboyant characters: the Boniface—proprietor of the local bar and Link's boss, and Clarice—the Boniface's girlfriend/lover and most fearful female drunk in town. At the very end, the tavern catches fire, which is where our next chapter begins.

I'm fairly certain I've covered everything, though if I haven't, drop me a line and I'll clear up any misunderstandings. Remember to read (and hopefully, review) and enjoy. Thanks to all for the encouragement and wonderful comments. I hope you'll forgive the gap between updates.

Disclaimer: **The Legend of Zelda** © Shigeru Miyamoto and Nintendo.

**The Fires of Compromise  
Chapter 4: Empty Bottles**  
By Boggy

By the time reinforcements arrived, the tavern was little more than ash and singed wood.

The fire had caught quick, what with hard brandy to fuel the flame, and the townspeople—customers namely—did well enough to keep the fire contained. Urns were emptied at the building's base, drenching the earth and erecting a temporary "moat" to prevent the flames from spreading into the town's residential district.

Families gathered in their doorways, stirred by commotion in the streets. Women watched, horrified, clutching their children close, and huddling against the forms of their husbands. Men surveyed their property with worry, fearful of becoming the arsonist's next victim.

Only the soldiers stationed at the service road were of any real assistance—them, and the small band dispatched by the King to patrol town. They formed a line, positioning themselves at the front of the fire. Pots and baskets were passed, one following another, the determination of a town splashing against the earth in magnificent, futile drops, and finally, thrown against the flames, as though battling the very essence of damnation.

A few soldiers piled at the tavern's back entrance, removing crates and urns, supplies and firewood, anything that might stimulate the spread of the fire. One guard's arm caught fire, his limbs flailing involuntarily amidst the panic, as his comrades pulled sheets and tapestries from vendors, frantic to squelch the soldier's pain.

"Circle around back!" one of the soldier's screamed. "Put another man on the side entrance! …You two! Yeah you!" He pointed to a couple of bystanders. "You sober? Then grab a pail of water and give it hell! BY DIN ACT LIKE YOU'VE GOT A PAIR!"

And give it hell they did—frazzled, overwhelmed, and desperately outnumbered—but honorable and dutiful as only soldiers could. The strain of their labor shone in the faces, the backs, the blackened suits, yet it was too sudden, too fast, and the tavern, despite their efforts, succumbed to the flame.

Link, bearing witness to the tavern's collapse, had helped in assisting drunkards from the bar, those sober enough to stand flapping sheets, pitching water, whatever means necessary to soothe the fire's fury. He'd offered a helping hand to the soldier's front, but was batted away and ordered to evacuate with the remaining civilians.

The Boniface had been last in leaving the tavern. He'd stayed to ensure his customers' welfare, and would have stayed to extinguish the flames, but was dragged—kicking and screaming, no less—from harm's way, and into the safety of the streets. A pair of burly regulars pulled him to the side, reminding him that "taverns would be rebuilt, but bartenders would be buried."

Clarice, intent on slapping the Boniface for both his earlier insensitivity and carelessness of the bar, forced her way through every brute, bum, and whore—flushed and only slightly sober—before throwing herself within swatting distance and pummeling him with alternate blows of insult and affection.

…Which was more than a little awkward with Link still attached.

But for the moment they stood, together, in the fire's glow, as the rooftops tethered and the doorframes sunk, the last of what defined the bar standing side by side, in the night, speechless. It was a devastating reality—in the flames, the smoke, the sunken ash—a thousand nights of women and wine, the dying echo of laughter and love, and the pungent smell of profit and piss. A world all its own destroyed, a lifestyle indefinitely silenced, and a sympathy found only in drunks and drifters.

It was an odd feeling, watching his job, his stability, his routine destroyed. An unidentified numbness that felt like nothing, and everything, and whatever else was wedged in between. The tavern wasn't what Link considered a "home," but in it he had formed a sort of estranged family unit with Clarice, the Boniface, and the tavern clientele. He had found contentment living in the servant's quarters; the space was small, but it was a space all his own. And for once, he had finally found peace with his life.

But as the Triforce of Courage burned in the evening brisk, he was reminded of a very painful truth:

Peace was not his to have, but to protect.

Hyrule needed that protection.

"Link."

Having watched for what felt like hours, Link turned to face Clarice, her hands massaging the Boniface's shoulders and forearms. Her fingers feathered the ends of his hair, as she motioned Link to the side. She crouched low, leveling herself with his torso, and pointing into the unsupervised darkness of the streets.

"I need you to do something for me."

* * *

Link watched, terrified, as Clarice screamed and swore and stormed about, breaking boxes, glasses, and smashing planks, her fury frightful and unforgiving amidst the calm of the alley. Nothing withstood the rage of her fists, her leathered boots and revealing vest a whirlwind of color against the blacks, blues, and billowy shadows. Her satchel flung, wildly, with the sweeps and thrashes of her arm—hair mussed, shirt tousled. She heaved with fatigue, brushing short, stray hairs from her eyes.

"Son of a BITCH! Son. Of. A. Bitch." She accentuated her words with a kick. "If I find the little BASTARD…"

Link covered his ears, startled by the clarity of Clarice's swears. He'd tagged along only to protect Clarice from rapists, thieves—things of the sort. Yet, as he shielded himself with an iron bowl, he felt her safety reassured.

"DAMNIT!"

Fortunately, the fire drew the guards and villagers to the town center, and the seclusion of the alley left Clarice's tantrums unnoticed.

"Ugh."

Her throat hoarse, Clarice flopped to the ground, defeated. Her face was a slate of unadulterated woe, and he wished, in that instance, he were graced with the gift of eloquent speech. But no amount of reassurance could restore what was lost.

The tavern was gone.

Head in hands, Clarice sighed, staring at the bits of debris strewn about from the remains of her tirade. She sighed, knowing that her tantrum had changed nothing, but somehow, yelling solidified the fact, to whatever deity was listening, that her circumstances displeased her.

It was a tantrum based on principle.

"Come on, Link." Clarice jumped to her feet. "We've got one hell of a mess waiting for us."

Link nodded, offering his arm as they turned to leave. Clarice obliged, leading them both in the direction of the open street. She squeezed his wrist for comfort, breaking into immediate conversation.

"Betcha half them customers try and sleaze their way out a helpin' with mornin' clean up," she snorted. "Lazy bastards. Bar's all but taken care a those good-fer-nothin' pieces of filth…"

Clarice ceased her ranting as she studied Link's thoughtful expression. He'd stopped to turn his attention towards the black of the alley, oblivious to her complaints.

"Link?"

Link put a finger to his lips, motioning her to the rear. She stood to the side, straining to catch of glimpse of whatever it was that had caught Link's eye. But all she could see was black—black, and the careful motions of Link's body as he eased himself through the darkness. Something about his glide, his stance, his all-knowing gaze—it seemed unnatural, or perhaps, natural for him, which seemed odd for a thirteen-year-old boy. It was almost as if a second body moved with his own, as though Link had suddenly "transformed" into a matured, futuristic version of himself.

His hand slid to the hilt of a blade, tucked neatly in the confines of his left boot. The blade was small, finely crafted, with a rounded jewel as the guard's centerpiece. Clarice had seen it once, in the past, though never questioned why or when or how, often curious of Link's origins but forever fearful of the answer.

Some questions shouldn't be asked.

As Link readied the blade, Clarice grabbed the remains of a broken crate. She didn't understand who or what, though she trusted Link's instincts, and was more than willing to give it hell. In their silence, she heard a distinct noise approaching at a quickened pace.

All at once she realized—what Link had "seen" were the sounds of pattering feet, echoing against and between the walls of the alley.

And there it was.

Two small figures shot, at an alarming rate, into Link and Clarice's visibility. The one in front, the taller of the two, came to an abrupt halt at the admission of Link's blade. They turned sharp, tripping over the smaller one and screaming as their weight made contact with the concrete.

"Waaaaaaah!"

Instinctively, Link covered his ears, crippled by the shrill, blood-curdling scream.

Clarice winced, annoyed, letting her "weapon" fall to the ground. She sighed, rolling her eyes at their alleged "attackers." "Oh well, son of a… It's just a couple a brats!"

"Couple a brats" was right. The pair looked little older than five or six, both girls, the smaller on the verge of tears. The "older" of the two was a young Zoran child. The other was the daughter of a local villager. The Zoran child sat upright, her tears slowing, but the fear evident in her eyes.

"Relax, kid. Nobody's gonna' hurt ya'." Clarice stepped forward, crouching low. "But you damn sure scared the flapjacks outta' us."

The Zoran child sniffed, backing away and stroking her right fin. The smaller was clutching the Zoran's back, terrified.

"Look, I already told ya'. We're not gonna' hurt ya.'" Clarice crept further, her eyes soft, despite the sternness in her voice. "Are ya' okay? Are ya' hurt?"

Link, who had long since relinquished his blade, took a seat beside Clarice, pointing to the Zoran's fin. She withdrew further, sniffling and refusing to budge. When she didn't relent, Link removed the ocarina from his pouch. He played low, the notes steady, hoping to soothe the girls and earn their trust. Their eyes softened at the melody, and he offered the ocarina to the Zoran, who hesitantly took hold the instrument, inspecting its shape and color. She formed what Link assumed a small smile, and gave her one of his own in return. She giggled, offering the ocarina to her friend.

Satisfied, Link lifted the girl carefully from the ground, carrying her into the open street. Clarice took the smaller child, mimicking Link's lead. They found a small bench near the Bazaar, where Link sat himself and the girl, the Zoran placed gently onto his lap.

Clarice smiled, warmed by Link's tenderness, his solemnity replaced with care and affection. The child smiled playfully, intrigued by Link's blonde hair and flawless skin, a sharp contrast to her blue pigmentation and scaled appendages. She tugged, lightly, at the ends of his hair, and Link, seizing the opportunity, inspected the injured fin.

A sharp sliver of glass had pierced the skin, no doubt the stray of a broken bottle. She'd sliced herself in the fall on what, Link assumed, had ricocheted off a wall during Clarice's "little tantrum." Blood spilled from the incision, though the cut itself wasn't deep, and with the slightest flick, he removed the shard, tossing it to the side.

He applied pressure to the wound, and the Zoran, preoccupied up to this point, flinched, her sniffles resurfacing. Fearing her cries, he bounced her lightly in his lap, as he'd seen mothers do in the Market. Her sniffles ceased, though the look in her face was questionable, as though the slightest discomfort would rouse her wails.

Clarice, convinced that both were calm, happy, and "repaired," snorted with contempt. She tapped her foot impatiently, the little girl's head bobbing in rhythm to the beat.

"So, ya' wanna' explain what in the blue HELL the two of yous is doin' out here, runnin' around like the damn blazes?"

The village girl, the one in Clarice's lap, leaned her head to the side. She looked to the Zoran, as though asking permission to share a dark secret. The Zoran nodded.

"My f-friend got a new pet. She came to share!"

"In the middle of the night?"

"It shows up better in the dark," the Zoran chimed in.

Clarice raised an eye. "Yer pet glows in the dark?"

"Yeah! Isn't that neat? I keep it in an empty Zora's egg, so it doesn't drift away."

"'…Drift away?'"

The Zoran reached into her back pouch, a scaled "pocket" of sorts attached at the hip. True to her word, a little Zora's egg emerged, tiny cracks along its center, like a chest. She pulled either end apart, revealing the tiniest of "pets" concealed inside.

Link stared, dumbstruck, at the Zoran's "pet," carefully removing it from the confines of its cage. He held it ever so lightly—a glowing ball of effervescent brilliance, just grazing the fibers of his skin. It twinkled in the night, a thousand wonders radiating from its surface.

It was something he'd seen, well, he couldn't recall the times, but it was a shape, a smell, an essence he would never forget, and an irrefutable piece of his past he could never escape.

"Link?" Clarice leaned in for a closer look. "What it is?"

Link fingered the creature, amusement in his voice.

"Pixie dust."

* * *

"Do you think it an act of sabotage? Sedition?"

"Sabotage is for war-time."

"Or for someone hoping to start a war."

The King glared at the figure of his daughter, tall and dauntless before the throne, her voice powerful and unabashed amidst the emptiness of the Grand Hall.

"Zelda, that's enough. Don't go blowing things out of proportion."

"Oh, really?" She cocked an eyebrow. "I thought it was keeping things in perspective."

"Depends on the bias of the viewpoint. You've obviously made your decision."

"Now who's blowing things out of proportion?" she smirked. "I'm simply concerned with the progression of this inspection."

"I've dispatched our legion's finest guards. They are doing all that they can do to ensure the safety of our people."

Zelda noted, with amusement, the twitch in her father's eye, but pressed forward nonetheless with her argument.

"The guards are soldiers, warriors—not investigators. A situation such as this requires thought and tact, not brainless force."

The King laughed. "And you've a better suggestion, dear daughter?"

Zelda scrunched her nose at the word "dear," finding his sarcasm and patronization all the more revolting. But she didn't start.

"I would suggest, dear father," she curtsied in prestigious spite, "dispatching a constable or local curator to assist the soldiers in their pursuit. The unveiling of clues and the establishment of motive is best left to men of intelligence, not men of the sword."

The King shook his head, pausing a moment to steal sips from his silver goblet. "Without a body to convict, we've nothing to establish motive from. And these so-called 'clues' are nestled within the ash and soot of the fires' remains. I've reviewed the evidence for myself, and as it stands, we've no leads in the matter, and as such, we've no position to place blame."

Zelda sighed. "This isn't an attack, father. This is a proposal."

The King stood, visibly irritated. "What you propose is the conjuration of circumstance under false pretenses and weightless assumptions—neither of which this castle can afford with fires running rampant and possible madmen on the loose."

"Weightless assumptions?" She felt the heat rise in her face; this time, her anger not so eloquently masked. "Who's making the assumptions, father? All I ask is the most effective measure possible be taken to bring these travesties to a halt!" She folded her arms and laughed. "But I suppose waiting for the next fire to strike is the more appropriate solution."

The King sighed, his eyes harsh, but his voice soft. "Zelda, I'm just as anxious as you are to procure the criminal, but the people rely on you for guidance, security, and reassurance."

"Yes," she agreed. "But the people rely on _you_ for decisiveness and resolve…"

"And as King," he interrupted, "I must consider all available options, and act accordingly. There's no logic in running around half-cocked."

She snorted at the word "logic."

"Zelda, your aggression worries me. As successor to my throne, I would think you, of all people, would understand the dangers of forming preconceived notions without provocation, and without probable cause. You mustn't jump to conclusions, and you mustn't cause unnecessary panic amongst your people."

Zelda "hmphed" her response, her weariness emphasized with a chuckle. "How typical of you, father. Mistaking caution for enthusiasm." Her voice grew dark. "You can prattle on about patience and phlegmatism all you like, but your placidity is but a carefully concealed ruse. Your hesitance and ambiguity are nothing short of an excuse."

"An excuse…!"

"An excuse against taking action. Rather than commit yourself to a side, you loiter about the middle ground professing 'care' and 'prudence,' whilst doing nothing to remedy the situation. I'm well aware the risks of getting oneself wet before scouting the pool for sharks, but unless the water is cleared, the people will never swim again."

"Now see here, child!" The King's voice took a dangerous tone. "You are certainly the high and mighty one when the responsibility rests on another man's shoulders. When and IF you become Queen," he pointed a finger for emphasis, "you will soon learn that decisions are not as simple as Point A to Point B, but a careful consideration of the parties involved, and the willingness to accept full responsibility for the resulting consequences of your actions."

"'Consideration?'" Zelda laughed. "Is this how you describe fear, father?"

"That's enough!" the King bellowed. "To your quarters at once!" He slammed his goblet against the armrest of the throne, his face filled with fury. "I will not subject myself to further disrespect! Be gone from my sight!"

Angrily, Zelda walked away. There was no speaking to him now, and it was best not to press the issue. She'd received word of the tavern's collapse, and largely out of fear for Link, approached her father, hoping to reach some manner of understanding. But discussing anything with the King was futile. Their discussions always turned sour. They were too stubborn and too disgusted with one another to try. If she was to accomplish anything, she'd have to go it alone.

Weary, but resolute, she lifted the hem of her dress, turning heel towards the direction of the stables.


	6. Chapter 5: Quarantined

Author's Notes: I think it's been better than a year since my last update. I apologize for this, but between work and purchasing a new home, I simply haven't had time to write. I can only hope my readers haven't abandoned the story, because I do intend to finish.

As penance for my prolonged absence, I took the opportunity to perform "overall" revisions before uploading Chapter 5. Both the Prologue and Chapters 1-4 have been re-edited as part of a personal "mid-story review." Some chapters were more heavily edited than others, but the story itself remains unchanged. I repeat, THERE HAVE BEEN NO CHANGES TO THE STORY'S PLOT. This was a "technical" revision, not a conceptual revision. You are NOT obligated to reread earlier chapters (though it is recommended).

One thing—I neglected posting Chapter 4 to Legends and Adventures, but I did upload the initial draft to FanfictionNet. The revised edition is now available to both. My apologies for the delay.

Also, I wanted to remind readers that I DO follow reviews and DO take criticisms into consideration when posting the fic. My vocabulary is, more often than not, the target of these criticisms. I apologize to anyone who struggles or considers the language "too advanced" for fanfiction. I assure you this is not an attempt to "show off" superior "word skillz." This is simply my style, my sound, and the way I construct my fiction pieces. Please understand, I refuse to "dumb down" my vocabulary to the point where I'm indistinguishable from the thousands of other brainless fanfictions "on the market." And it isn't my intention to alienate audiences within the community, but specific styles are simply "harder to take," and if mine is one of those styles, then so be it. I do hope my viewers will continue to enjoy the story.

Disclaimer: **The Legend of Zelda** © Shigeru Miyamoto and Nintendo.

**The Fires of Compromise  
Chapter 5: Quarantined**  
By Boggy

"What the hell are we doing here?"

Clarice paced back and forth, rubbing her arms against the onslaught of the early morning breeze. Lake Hylia was cool at dawn, even at summer's peak, despite humidity and the cruel, oppressive rays of the sun. She scoffed, preferring the shadowy nothingness of the night to the immobilizing brightness of the day, squinting against the light. It reflected in the morrow dew, layering the surrounding fields. It might have been pretty, had she not fatigue and hunger from the night's ordeal.

Link, having ignored her inquiries, stood at the lake's edge. He paused, surveying the still waters, before removing the sarong wrapped at his hip. It hung loose and wild, the skill of its seamstress woven into the finely-stitched fabrics and decorative tassels. Its earthen colors matched the mahogany of his leathered pants—a departure, perhaps, from his traditional forest green. But it was warm and practical, and an exotic alternative to his beloved tunic.

Setting it aside, Link dipped his lower body into the shallows, his breath catching at the rush of icy waters. In the heat of summer, the lake possessed an unseasonable chill, troubling his instincts. But as the numbness faded, he pushed his worries sidewise, scanning the sands for baby Shell Blades.

He recalled his earlier encounter with the Zoran, and the discovery of her pixie "pet"—curious as to how a Zoran, of all creatures, could obtain the remains of a fairy's wings, a fantasy bound by the confines of the forest. By chance, fairies could be found in trees or small shrubberies, but never the same place twice, and only for a fleeting moment, their magics whisked away, as quickly as they come, by the trick of the light. And you wonder, in that instance, if the magic is real.

But even more surprising was what was later revealed; with Clarice in tow, the girls admitted to another midnight "tryst"—coincidentally, from the morning before. They had wandered, just the same, through town, marveling at the Zoran's "pet," when suddenly, The Bombchu Shop burst into flames! Terrified, the children fled, but only when morning came did the village child realize her favorite toy, a stringed bell, had been left behind. A bell that would later be confiscated by the Guards, and placed as evidence in Hyrule Castle.

Link laughed at the irony.

Focusing on the task at hand, his eyes captured a "clump" in the sands. Strategically, Link slid the Kokirin blade from his boot, brushing its tip along the sand's surface—a thin etch trailing the sword's finite edge. Its nesting disturbed, a pair of ferocious teeth latched, gripping the metal with rage. Quickly, Link pulled to shore, and with a vicious thrust, immobilized the fiend, severing its insides against the earth.

Clarice jumped at the ruthlessness of the kill. She had never known Link to draw his blade, had assumed the sword an heirloom or gift from his deceased kin. And yet, in the span of a single night, he had withdrawn his blade not once, but twice, demonstrating the necessary skill to use it.

Determinedly, he worked, his face furrowed in seriousness. Clarice leaned in, mesmerized by the methodical stroke of his hands. He cleaned his catch—stripping the meat, wiping the shell's surface, and lastly, stringing its innards with onion grass for flavor. He then hung the slab over a small fire, prepared earlier by Clarice, smoking the tenderloins into a rich bronze, its tantalizing aroma a welcome and refreshing comfort.

"Well, ain't you a regular 'man of the wild?'"

Link ignored her commentary, keeping watch over the flame. It wasn't long before the slab was cooked and sliced—yet another chore for the Kokiri Sword—and gobbled heartily, both eager to ease the rumbling of their empty stomachs. Clarice complimented him, throughout the meal, on the tenderness of the meat, impressed by Link's culinary talents.

"Ya' know, I'd always reckoned Shell Blades' tough and gristly." She plucked an onion grass, placing it between her lips. "But it goes down easy. …Needs a bottle a booze though."

Link wiped his blade clean. "These are baby Shell Blades, which are soft and sweet. But the adults…" He made a face. "Too chewy."

Clarice laughed, leaning against the grass. "What'd ya' save the shell for? Collect 'em?"

He shook his head, brushing his legs as he stood. The meatless shell in hand, Link lowered himself once again into the shallows, swimming out towards the center of the lake. Purposefully his eyes scanned the surface, following a faint sparkle in the distance. He swam towards the flicker of light, the cool water splashing against the weight of his body. Carefully, Link lowered the shell, encasing the luminous orb inside and clamping either end shut with a snap.

"Link!"

Link jumped, nearly losing grasp of the shell.

"Oh, our apologies Link."

The voice belonged to a Zoran male, young and elegant, with a second, at his side, bobbing to the surface. Link laughed, shaking his head. The Zoras popped out of the lake like Daises—a startling surprise every time!

"We were out for an early morning snack when we noticed a trail of smoke drifting over the lake."

The second Zora jumped in. "You can see how that would cause concern, so we swam to the surface to investigate." He sniffed. "Is that a Shell Blade I smell? Wretched creatures, if you ask me."

The first nodded. "You do the Zoras a great service by disposing of them. The little ones get caught in the teeth—tears their fins to pieces. It's a real problem."

"A real problem," the second mimicked.

"Oh, do you collect the shells?" He motioned to Link's hand. "I've heard Hylians love seashells, but I can't imagine most would go to the trouble of slaying Shell Blades. They'd require a lot of cleaning—skinning the meat, detaching the teeth… But, I suppose that's half the thrill, especially for an adventuresome boy, like yourself."

"Hmm, like yourself."

"Actually," Link began, "Shell Blades make excellent containers." He paused. "By the way, how is Zora's Domain?"

"Zora's Domain? Doing well, as always."

"As always."

The Zora pondered a bit. "Though the little ones have complained."

Link's ears twitched.

"They've been complaining at night. 'Father, it's cold!' Strange, don't you think, in the middle of summer? Usually, our summer evenings are quite mild, but I too have noticed a nip in the air."

"Just a slight nip."

Onshore, Clarice watched, shielding her eyes from the sun as she peered out over the lake. It seemed Link was discussing something of importance with the Zorans, but they were too far off-shore to make sense of the conversation. Soon, Link said his goodbyes—as Clarice could only assume—and made the return swim to shore.

"Hey!" She held out a hand, helping him to the grass. "Took ya' long enough."

Link shook the water from his hair and boots.

"Ya' mind tellin' me what's goin' on? I ain't no scholar, but I'm sure that wasn't no social call."

Link presented his shell. "This."

He crouched low, motioning Clarice close. Slowly, he pried the shell apart, its insides flickering against the light.

"Hey!" Clarice jumped back. "That's one a those things! Like those kids had! Last night!"

Link nodded. "Pixie dust."

"Ya' went through all that trouble fer this?"

He pointed out towards the lake. "See those sparkles along the water's surface?"

"Yeah, I see it." She shrugged. "It's just the sun."

"It's pixie dust." He pointed to the sky. "Look, the sun isn't high enough to reflect over the cliffs."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine, fine. So what of it?"

"It's not normal."

"Huh?" She gave him a puzzled look. "What do ya' mean, 'not normal?'"

Link thought for a moment and shook his head. "I should escort you back to town."

* * *

She was on his case the entire trip, but he kept his business to himself. She kept asking what was "not normal," and why he was "so obsessed" with "chasing fairies." Link knew she was trustworthy, but there was no sense in worrying her without validating his suspicions.

She was reluctant, of course, to simply "stay behind" as Link ventured ahead. But the Boniface would need her support, and the tavern would need every available hand for "tidying up." Be that as it may, the town took precedence over Clarice's curiosity.

Besides, where he was headed, there was no bringing anyone along for the ride.

He saw her safely to Market, before venturing into Hyrule Field and retrieving the Ocarina of Time from his pouch. He recalled that familiar melody, his destination clear but distant. He focused his essence, calmed his mind, and envisioned his body wrapped in weightlessness.

Matter and space were irrelevant to the magics of the Ocarina's song.

And in an instant he stood, breathless before its ethereal brilliance, at the "gates" of the Forest Temple.

* * *

Clarice fumed.

Link had left her behind to help with the morning clean-up. Where he'd gone, Clarice couldn't say. He'd refused to answer, dismissed her demands, and insisted she return to town. In all fairness, it was where she belonged. She was a civilian, not a soldier, not a specialized guard, not a thirteen, elfin-eared mystery with swordsmanship equivalent to an elite knight. And though it was beyond her understanding, she was struck with an unnamed revelation that, whatever was troubling Hyrule, it was Link's responsibility to restore peace.

But it was what made his "desertion" of her more the maddening. It wasn't just a passing problem; the fires had affected her personally. She wanted to fix things, make it right again. Surely there was something, anything she could do to help.

Annoyed, she proceeded to the Town Square, observing the growing number of troops as she neared the pub. It felt odd to her; the soldiers seemed tense and uneasy. It was normal for the king's militia to patrol town. But there was something unsettling in their robotic stance, a sort of forced confidence behind unknowing eyes.

A lone guard stood at the gates, blocking entrance to the service road. A mob had gathered, wailing frantically, shouting obscenities, and demanding justice. Clarice pushed through the crowd, shoving drunkards and housewives and searching for signs of the Boniface or his entourage from the bar.

"Probly off in an alley somewhere, drunk in his own self-pity," she spoke aloud.

A woman near the front turned, recognizing the voice. She held a hand high and waved.

"Clarice!"

Clarice looked up. "Huh?"

The woman was a tenant in a neighboring flat. And, like Clarice, a lover of the "sauce." They'd exchanged their fair share of stories, always over a bottle of brew. Clarice wasn't one to "live it up" with "the girls," nor was she a "Miss Market," but she considered her tenant friend a kindred spirit. It was rare for women nearing thirty, both single and childless, to associate with someone as "free-spirited" as Clarice. Not that she was interested in "sisterly bonds," but it was nice having someone her own level to talk to.

She caught up to the woman, brushing beads of sweat from her face. Her hair was matted, but she didn't care. "What in blazes is happenin' round here?"

The woman shrugged. "Don't know. Whole town's in an uproar over last night. People screamin', panicked…" She extended her neck to the crowd. "That's when the guards came pilin' through. Been tryin' to get the townsfolk's 'tention ever since. But ya' can't hear a damn thing in all this ruckus."

"Have they arrested anyone?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. But they keep this up, mark my words, they'll be riots in the streets. Last night's fire was the last straw."

Clarice opened her mouth to respond, but was cut short by the guards. A second soldier had taken post, with what looked to be a royal parchment from the King. The other held a horn, silencing the crowd in three distinct signals. The town stilled, anxious for the announcement to come.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Please! If I may have your attention! I have received word from the King!"

The woman elbowed Clarice. "This should be good."

"We ask that you hold all questions till the end. We will make this brief, so you can return to your daily activities." He cleared his throat, holding the scroll high. "Citizens of Hyrule. For thirteen years, our nation has been a nation of peace. We have overcome countless obstacles to ensure the safety of our people. But I understand that many of you are frightened in light of recent events. Rest assured, I have dispatched only the finest of my men."

Clarice snorted, quietly. "That's reassuring."

"I have doubled the guard in town, and ordered a thorough search of all parties both entering and exiting the gates. To assist the soldiers in their search, and to better protect you, the citizens of Hyrule, I have put into effect, as of this day, a curfew…"

Gasps erupted from the crowd. "What?"

"…beginning at the hour of dusk. This curfew will be strictly enforced. Any persons found outside their residence at or past the hour of dusk will be fined, and subject to criminal charges. Please understand, these actions are in the best interest of the city. I am confident that, by working together, Hyrule will sleep safely once again. We greatly appreciate your cooperation."

And at those words, the crowd roared.

"We're to be locked away, as prisoners in our own homes?"

"Trapped within the city! Trapped, with a mad man on the loose!"

"Why don't you just shove a leash up our ass?"

Clarice struggled against the mob, bouncing between bodies as they pushed and yelled. She felt the helplessness of their cries, and the frustration of the guards. No one liked being told when they could or couldn't leave their homes. She imagined the soldiers were just as shocked as the villagers. After all, a city-wide quarantine was no easy task. Things were bound to turn ugly.

"Link," Clarice thought aloud. "I hope yer a religious man, 'Cause a prayer's all this city's got." She looked to the crowd. "…And I reckon the Gods ain't too impressed."


	7. Chapter 6: Forest Temple

Author's Notes: As much as I enjoy this chapter, it was a complete PAIN IN THE ASS to write. I had to keep switching on my N64 to load my OoT save file for the descriptions of the Forest Temple. Each time I thought I had everything, I stumbled onto something I couldn't remember, and it was back to the old N64. I wanted to make absolutely sure the descriptions in my story were as consistent as possible with the in-game environments (the detailing written in my personal style, of course). Because after all, the Forest Temple wouldn't have changed much between time periods—not in the structural sense, at least.

There are quite a few OoT references throughout the chapter (more so than the others), so I hope, for those of you who haven't played in like, ten years, you don't go "ugh, dur?" when you run into something you don't recognize. So, I'm hoping this chapter will jog memories for most of you readers out there (though it could drive you nuts trying to frantically place what the hell it is I'm talking about).

Also, I apologize if the title seems lame. It was just the most appropriate thing I could think of, and you'll see why after reading the chapter.

Disclaimer: **The Legend of Zelda** © Shigeru Miyamoto and Nintendo.

**The Fires of Compromise  
Chapter 6: Forest Temple  
**By Boggy

The smell hit him instantly. That vulgar mixture of humidity and rotting soil, permeating the entryway as his eyes scanned the surroundings for light. The halls were dim, the vine-encrusted walls and ceilings frightening, almost vicious in their elusive serenity. In every line, every texture, every darkened keyhole was a lingering "something" that stirred his inner memories. And for the moment, he was "Link" again, proud and tall, a sword and shield in hand, and an arousing uncertainty from an enemy behind closed doors.

Though he knew full well the monsters were gone—the Wolfos and Blue Bubbles—evaporated into nothingness with the "destruction" of Ganon. An estranged "peace" filled the air, an unsettling calm in the suppressed ugliness of the Temple's beauty. This was now a place of sanctum, worship. He dared not draw his blade, for fear of invoking an unnamed deity's wrath, lying dormant within the sacred hallows.

He coughed. His purpose was clear, but his senses clouded, his nose succumbing to that familiar stench. His limbs were weak, a kind of numbness only felt in the presence of evil, amplified by the concentrated energies of the Temple. He'd always shook them off in the past, always carried on… Why was it so difficult now? Was it his mind playing tricks? Was it the pained recollections of the wails and cries of the Temple's song? He could hear them, even now. Something wicked and distant, pushing against his throat, strangling him.

Nausea overtook, bringing him to his knees. He coughed again, feeling the bile rise, but swallowed hard, ignoring the urge to release. It was not fear, but déjà vu. The overwhelming familiarity of it all—so twisted and terrible, yet wonderful and wanted—this was what he'd lived for.

Link bowed his head, clamping his eyes shut, whispering a silent prayer to his patron, Farore. When in doubt, he turned to the Goddess of Courage for strength. He envisioned her magnificent form, wrapped in light and cloth, the mystery of her eyes hidden beneath the pale viridian of her hair. She invaded his dreams, filled with guidance and understanding, compassion and warmth. His dreams of Zelda were passion and fire, friendship and desire. Both so real, it was as though he could reach out—hold them close, embrace the very fibers of their skin.

With renewed composure, Link rose to his feet. He breathed deep, searching the air for that offensive smell. It lingered still, but with less intensity, the wails too fading in the distance. Even the darkness lifted, the hall illuminated by a flickering torch. Strange, how it had escaped his attention previously.

Continuing on, he stepped through the doorway leading into the central hall. Even in its purified state, the room was unchanged. It served as a hub for the interlocking corridors and passageways of the Temple, and as an access station between top and bottom floors. In the past, or in all correctness, the future, Poes had prevented entry to the basement levels, disabling the lift via an assortment of deadly traps. Now that Saria overlooked the Temple, the lift was in working order, the traps removed, and the Poes at rest.

It was the first he'd seen of the Temple since his return. He'd contemplated visiting, not only the Forest Temple, but the others as well. Only, reliving those moments, those images stung. Something about the life he'd lived he just couldn't shake. He kept telling himself it was for the good of the people, for the good of Hyrule. For the Princess. But bouncing back and forth between realities—it'd hit him hard.

…Why was he acting so selfishly?

His only contact was Saria, whom he'd kept in touch with via Ocarina link. And even they had grown further apart. When was it last they spoke? Three months? Four months? Life plunged ahead, it seemed, and with it the yearning of younger, simpler, innocent days. In the end, everything was as Sheik had said.

Nothing was crueler than time. And nothing could be more heartbreaking.

A part of him was nervous. Would he look different to her? Older? Wiser? Would she even recognize him? He thought for a moment and figured she would. Hell, he hadn't changed much. Still, it felt like an eternity since he'd last embraced this avenue of his past. In those times, Saria had been his only friend.

She knew he was here; of that Link was certain. Saria's senses, those only a Sage could possess, were completely in-tune with the Temple. Her essence and the essence of the Temple were as one. If a door creaked or a branch rustled, she knew. Saria could hear a seedling take root, identify the bud before it bloomed, and predict the life span of any given organism in the gardens.

Her duties as guardian kept her confined to the Temple, trailing its energies in ontological transcendence. Though she appeared as real and "normal" as Link himself, and could manifest a "physical" form to communicate with the outside world. Yet she was never wholly separate, be it mind, body, or spirit, from the magics of the Temple.

Such were the blessing and curse of the Sage of the Forest.

Closing the door behind him, Link approached one of the four torches encircling the lift. The flame was a fluorescent sage, burning steadily and cool to the touch. With his left hand, he danced his fingers through the flicks, the leather of the glove neither singed nor scarred. The light created an orb of color surrounding the torch, reflected in the bright of his eyes. It was odorless, crackling with controlled intensity, without ash, soot, or smoke.

It was an eternal flame, its existence immune to the logics of the mortal plane.

His eyes adjusted to the light, searching its aura for what—he couldn't say. But as he gazed aimlessly into the blaze, a shadow stretched from across the lift, the shape indiscernible as its tips merged with the darkness beyond the perimeter of the torch. He brought his arms waist side, following the shadow's trail, stopping midpoint between the sage and its adjacent flame.

And there she was.

On the opposite side, centered between the remaining two torches, stood Saria. The sapphire flame danced against the emerald of her hair, her petite, Kokirin frame made smaller still by the openness of the Temple. And as she approached the lift, there was mystery in her eyes, a sagacious wonderment of the profound, the magic and wisdom of the world at her fingertips.

Link followed suit, stepping forward, placing a hand on either side of the lift. Saria did the same, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. They stared at one another through the beams, a hundred memories shared through their wordless exchange.

"Hello Link."

There was a pause.

"Hello Saria."

Her smile widened, something playful in her face. Link scrunched his brow in thought, tossing her a questioning look, but stopped when the amethyst flame beside her jerked.

…Why would it move so suddenly?

In an instant, the torches flared, lifting the darkness. Startled, Link's gaze circled the room, absorbing the subtleties unveiled in the fire's light—imperfections in the walls, markings etched in stone, vines seeping through the cracks of the Temple floor—before bringing his eyes to rest on Saria, hands at her back as she rocked to and fro.

She giggled, obviously making a show of her Sagely powers, the heaviness of the room thinned by the echoes of her laugh. He joined her merriment, both happy and relieved in the company of his old friend.

"You're not the only one who can raise a fuss," she teased.

She snapped her fingers, evening the flames, their ferocity reduced to crackling spits.

"But I understand you didn't come for parlor tricks."

Link's expression darkened at the seriousness of her tone. …So she did know. Saria sensed what was happening in the world, the imbalance of the elements. Someone or something was unsettling the forest. His only hope now was that she could provide a solution, or at the very least, answers.

"So, how does it feel?"

"…Huh?" The question was awkward but forthright, catching him off-guard. He shot her a puzzling look.

"Here, in the Temple. In these ruins. It's been a while for you, hasn't it? Three years?" Probingly, she asked again. "How does it feel?"

Link furrowed his brow, an uneasy feeling in his chest.

"Like I never left."

Silence fell between them. Saria wanted so much to say something, to empathize, to offer him the understanding he deserved. But what _could_ she say? Was there anything _to_ say at this point? Did she truly understand his struggles, his uncertainties? Did he or could he ever understand hers in return?

Did they have anything in common at all anymore?

Her eyes wandered over his legs and torso, his adolescent form showing signs of the man he would one day become. It occurred to her, quite painfully, that as time passed, Link would continue to grow and age, while she, a Kokiri and Sage of the Forest, pressed onward, preserved by the magics of the Sacred Realm and her duties as the guardian of the Forest Temple.

Self-conscience, Link fidgeted under Saria's piercing gaze, intimidated by the intensity in her face. He cleared his throat, snapping her back to reality. All at once she realized her folly, backing into the shadows to the hide the reddening of her cheeks.

Clumsily, she struck up idle conversation. Hopefully, she wouldn't sound as embarrassed as she felt.

"You're clothes," she pointed. "You're not wearing your Kokirin robes."

Lowering his chin, Link tugged at the front of his shirt. "I outgrew them."

"I could sew a new one for you!" she beamed, clasping her hands in excitement. "I don't want to pat my own back here, but we Kokiri make excellent tailors. It'd be no trouble at all and I have nothing but time!" She smiled expectantly.

Link shook his head. "Thanks Saria, but no. I'd feel… strange wearing them." He braced himself, knowing his next statement would sting. "I'm Hylian, Saria. I have always been Hylian."

Saria flinched at his words. It was a gut-wrenching truth that separated their two worlds. His words hurt—her crestfallen expression said as much—but rang true. She brought her hands back behind her, eyes to the floor.

"What can I say…?" He mentally berated his insensitivity, clenching his fists. "I know I haven't contacted you in… months. I'd always meant to, but time kept slipping away." His words were heavy. "It's so hard to keep track these days…"

Saria sniffed, her voice soft. "I know what you mean."

"Please, Saria," he pleaded, stepping forward. "I can't explain it, I don't have words for it, but Hyrule…" Link subconsciously rubbed his hand. "Something's wrong. I can feel it."

Saria hesitated a moment, peeling her eyes from the floor. Something indiscernible flashed in her face, a concern-filled grimace looking back at him.

She sighed.

"You'd better come with me."

* * *

They rode the lift to the basement levels, her back facing Link in their silent descent. She'd been relaxed at first, at east. But now she fidgeted, nervously, worried and unnerved, her eyes bearing holes of anxiety into the stone walls. He sensed she was withholding, reluctant to unveil—or perhaps, confess—that which had brought him to her, their worlds once again entwined in chaos.

Was peace too much to hope for? Were they asking too much of life?

The lift came to an abrupt halt, its wooden base echoing against the concrete floors. With it parked, they were clear to continue on, but neither of them moved—or even breathed—an inch. Wary and slightly humbled, it was several seconds before either stepped forward from inside the lift, Link's boots making contact with the carmine carpet.

The basement architecture was identical to the upper levels. The lift served as the basement's centerpiece, branching out into five separate rooms, accented by decorative floor covering. The room facing Link was lined with cobalt carpeting, flecks of earth dotting the rich and otherwise flawless material. Its path was darker than the other four, and colder too. Link could feel it brushing against his arms and cheeks, his body shuddering involuntarily against the chill, that unnamed stench threatening to resurface from the recesses of his memories.

Saria mumbled something at his left, but his attention was fixated on the door at the end of the hall, towering menacingly even in the dimmed light. The door that he approached absently, as if in a trance, Saria trailing behind him worriedly. He'd never dreamed, in the three years since his return, he'd ever again step foot inside Phantom Ganon's lair.

Only Saria physically shaking his shoulder seemed to break its spell, her tiny fingers pointing at and beyond the barrier of the door.

Its surface was cold. He brushed his hands against the metal, the door sliding upwards, disappearing into the frame and granting them access to the master chamber. Inside, the staircase spiraled to a plateau, rope fencing lining the circumference of the platform. Almost immediately, he noticed the pictures had changed—instead of the darkened path and castle, the images were filled with scenes from other areas of the Temple. One was a recreation of the gardens—the wooden bridge over the water, the vines crawling up the ancient pillars, corners of the moss-covered well peeking out from the edge of the court. He analyzed each, circling the room, nauseated by its panoramic view.

Something else was different too. In the middle of the room was a pedestal, made of an archaic stone resembling that of the other décor of the Temple. It too was covered in vines and moss stretching up from its base. But the top was empty. Whatever the stand had been holding previously was missing.

Saria watched as Link moved about, absorbing the similarities and differences, tracing the unnamed expression that followed his movements across the room. He did a three-sixty of his surroundings, before coming to rest on Saria, a look of devotion and enthrallment in her eyes. A blush crept to her cheeks when she realized he had once again caught her gaze. And again she was grateful for the poor light, masking her embarrassment as he stood to face her.

But this time, she would not back away.

"That's new." He jerked his head in the direction of the stand.

"It's used to hold the Spiritual Stone," she explained. "The Kokiri's Emerald."

After resetting time and restoring Hyrule, the Sages agreed that keeping the Spiritual Stones at the Temple of Time was too dangerous a risk. The Stones together held the power to unlock the Door of Time, and open the path to the Sacred Realm. At the idea of unleashing Ganon, the Stones were immediately separated, and returned to their original caretakers. The Spiritual Stone of the Forest was given to Saria, the Spiritual Stone of Fire to Darunia, and the Spiritual Stone of Water to Ruto, for safekeeping. Link was never told what became of the Spiritual Stones, only that they were "in good hands," and to "never again seek the power of the Goddesses." It never occurred to him that they were stored in their elemental counterpart Temples.

"I keep the Spiritual Stone here, at the centermost point of the Temple," she continued. "In the basement level, surrounded by stone and earth on all sides—it's the safest place."

Link absently scratched his cheek, tilting his head to one side. "So…if you keep it here, where is it now?"

Shamefully, Saria bowed her head, a hand just brushing the sides of her brow. She held it there, guilt-stricken, before leveling her gaze with Link's.

"…I tried calling you, Link. I did." Her voice cracked. "But I…" She stopped, emotion catching in her throat.

"Saria…?"

"I don't know how it happened," she shivered, "or who could have taken it. But please believe me—I've been trying to get in touch with you for days!"

"It's gone?"

Saria gave a feeble nod, sniffling hard.

"But when…?"

"It went missing a few days ago."

She shook her head, raising her hands in disbelief. "I check it everyday, religiously. It's always right here, in this very spot." She stamped her hands on either side of the stand. "No one's been inside the Temple; no one but me. …It's not like anyone could walk out with it!" she wailed. "I don't know where it could be—I can't sense it anywhere! It's like it just up and…_vanished_ into thin air!"

Her hands fell at her sides.

"Please forgive me, Link."

Link said nothing, his brain buzzing a mile a minute. He kept repeating it in his head. The Spiritual Stone was gone… The Spiritual Stone was gone…

Where the hell could it have went?

He crossed his arms, tapping the toe of his boot against his heel. Saria was on the verge of tears, her eyes glued to the floor.

"Are you _sure_ no one's been inside the Temple?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Saria exclaimed. "The only visitors I have are the Kokiri, and they never go beyond the front steps."

With Saria's duties as the Sage of the Forest, she could never return to Kokiri Village. To justify her absence, Saria, in a physical form, told the Kokiri that the Great Deku Tree had summoned her, appointing her with the task of protecting the Temple in the event of his death. It wasn't a lie, not completely, but she hated deceiving their trusting, innocent minds.

"They visit me—the Know-It-All-Brothers, the Twins, Mido. But only out front. They're too frightened to go inside."

"And you tried contacting me, but couldn't?"

Saria sniffled again, reaching into her pouch to reveal a broken ocarina.

"My Fairy Ocarina is broken. I don't know how it happened…" She swallowed, hard. "Please Link, I'm an absolute mess. What's going on?"

The Spiritual Stone was gone, and her ocarina smashed. Link was a little overwhelmed, but he felt her uncertainty and saw the distress in her eyes. He needed to be strong…for both of them.

Link gave her a sympathizing, but reassuring look. "Don't worry, Saria. It'll be alright. We'll figure out what to do." He smiled, feeling energized by the challenge. "And I know exactly where to begin!"

Saria looked up, wiping a tear from her eye. "You do?"

Link nodded. "Zelda."


	8. Chapter 7: A Traitorous Old Friend

Author's Notes: Okay. So this chapter is waaaayyy overdue. Most of my original readers have probably long since deserted this fic, but maybe I can ring in a new batch of you now that almost two years have passed since I uploaded Chapter 6. If you are one of the original readers, and you've been waiting for updates, I apologize. I'm not the most punctual or reliable author, and any of the pieces I write take time, especially TFoC, due to the complex, multi-faceted nature of the plot. I assure you there is an "end" to this, and maybe, sometime by 2015, I'll have it uploaded to FFNet. O.o

Speaking of FFNet, I noticed they've removed my line breaks from the previous chapters and globbed everything together into one on-going paragraph. I must say, I'm a little miffed. Rest assured, I'm reuploading the other chapters tonight to correct this little err on FFNet's part, so my stories read fluidly. Again, my apologies.

This chapter is a little longer than the rest, partly because of how long it took to update, and partly because we're finally covering some ground with the plot. Not a lot is explained in the OoT universe (or LoZ in general), so I took some liberties with the lore, the hierarchy of powers, science of the world, etc. I tried not to be overly technical with the language, but I did want what I was saying to make sense, so hopefully I don't fumble over any of the explanations near the end of the chapter. If something seems really off or illogical, please feel free to shoot me an e-mail (or review) and I'll make haste to rectify/clarify my mistake. Hope you enjoy!

On to the fic!

Disclaimer:** The Legend of Zelda** © Shigeru Miyamoto and Nintendo.

**The Fires of Compromise  
Chapter 7: A Traitorous Old Friend**  
By Boggy

When Link had lived in the Kokiri Forest, dreams had been his only escape.

He'd spent the first ten years of his life climbing vines and skipping rocks. Saria had done the same, laughing and running and twirling through trees. Yet Link couldn't help but sense a "difference" between them. She'd seemed older, more developed, a hidden secret behind emerald eyes. Link had secrets too, though he had always felt he had nothing to hide. He was open and free, like the forest, even if he'd always been slightly "out of place" amidst his Kokirin brethren.

Yes, the forest had been his home, whatever his unusual circumstance. And he had loved Saria—his family, his friend, the only "mother," or sister, he'd ever known.

But nothing could compare to the tranquility of dreams. The night, in its mysterious descent, hovering over the forest in a blanket of stars, immobilizing the light. He would lie in the hollowed innards of his house, window opened wide, welcoming the sleep that would snatch him from his cocooned world and whisk him away into the uncharted skies of the beyond. And it was in these flights he dreamt of other worlds, other tribes, other shapes and colors of the evergreen tree. And it was in these dreams he could lose himself to the urge, the want, the _need_ to see and do something outside those forested walls.

It was in dream that Link felt truly alive, truly "himself." Though it was something he could never share with Saria—or anyone of the Kokiri Forest. They'd seemed so…_bound_ to its barriers, so confined. He did not think they would or even could understand his longings, his impatience.

He'd made a ritual, at dusk, of scaling the tops of his treehouse to stare, mesmerized, into the sky. Saria would sometimes join him, but with an unnamed apprehension akin to fear, though she'd never vocalized her concern. So far gone was he that he'd once climbed the top of the tallest tree in hopes of stealing the smallest glimpse of a world beyond the forest… But alas, he saw only a stretch of canopy fading in the distance.

Link, alone in his fanciful whims, locked his dreams away with the twilight hour, toiling through the day in anticipation of the night. And life carried on this way, for several years, until that fateful appearance of _her_.

It was the first and only time he'd given any serious thought to telling Saria. But only because she was so…_perfect_. Not in the sense that she was beautiful and angular and ivory white—though there was certainly that too—but in the sense that she and him were the _same_. He could _sense_ the sameness between them, _feel_ the understanding in her eyes. She knew him, knew what he was, knew why he wanted to escape and where he could escape to. She was whatever he had been searching for. The only trick was in finding her.

He'd kept silent at first, not wanting to draw attention to his ethereal visions, but Saria caught wind of his absent-minded daydreams, his sketchings of her eyes and nose against the bark and tethered parchments.

"Who is she?" she'd asked. Link had found it oddly perceptive that Saria had known it was female.

"A girl," he'd replied. "A girl in my dreams."

Link recounted the image of the fair-haired girl in his mind, the number of times she'd appeared, the way her face had bored holes into his very soul. Saria had listened with fervor, patience, and at his mention of her beauty, what he now knew to be a vicious envy. Had he understood it better, Link would have seen the repressed longing in Saria's eyes, the same longing that followed his form from across the bridge, trailing behind him in his departure from the forest. A longing left to swirl and stew and squelch into nothingness as he marched into the unknown future.

Zelda, he had dreamed.

Now, years later, at his mention of Zelda once again, Saria's expression turned imperceptibly cold. It was strange to see such an unbecoming scowl on Saria's otherwise warm and inviting face. Link had never known Saria to be cruel or unthinking to even the slightest of creatures. But something of his attachment to the Princess sparked a carefully controlled rage in Saria—he could see, so much better now than before.

In a rendezvous, Link had once asked Zelda if she and Saria had ever spoke, but Zelda assured him they had not. Their powers had "crossed once," she'd explained, during the battle with Ganon, but all association otherwise had ceased with the recycling of time.

And for that, Link had been silently grateful.

At his mention of Saria, she'd asked if he ever missed life in the forest. He'd thought for a moment and decided he did not. When he reflected on his life then, he knew, strong as anything, that he had never been truly happy. It had always been his destiny to leave. Nothing in the forest could have kept him.

She'd nodded at this, her eyes almost pitying; it was as if she understood something he did not. But in her he also saw smugness, a triumphant gleam. Zelda had been raised a princess, a noble. Like any ruling overlord, Zelda was territorial, possessive of her property. _Link_ was her property. His affirmation of his loyalty and detachment from the forest only reinforced the hold she held over his heart. She knew, as Saria knew, as Link himself knew that his future was forever entwined with Hyrule, with the Princess, with the land of the world outside the forest. He had no way of knowing if his decision was even conscious, but he knew in the depths of his soul it was right.

Link's thoughts then drifted, briefly, to Malon, whom he had also left behind for the sake of Zelda. Malon, who in so many ways, was more of his kind than Saria could ever be. But she too had been a fleeting acquaintance, a stepping stone on the path to "greater things." He did not think ill of himself for his callous thoughts. Zelda had told him once that people were just as much a learning experience as textbooks and dungeon maps. And if there was one thing Malon, and even Saria, had taught him, it was not to invest time in that which could never be.

And the longer he looked into Saria's jealous eyes, her countenance cold at his warming of the Princess, he knew, in his heart, that the friendship they once shared could, like his friendship with Malon, never be.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon before Link made it back to the Temple of Time. He'd hastened his return to Market after his and Saria's strained goodbye. With the Spiritual Stone missing, Zelda would want to know the what, when, where, and how of every detail Link could provide. Retrieving it was every bit her responsibility as it was his.

He turned to face the sacred alter, the one constant of all his pasts, presents, and futures, the one thing through all his bodies and builds had remained unchanged. Behind it was the Door of Time, the gateway linking Hyrule and the Sacred Realm, resting place of the ancient Triforce. The Door of Time, accessible only to Link, the Hero of Time, the rightful owner of the Master Sword. His blood boiled with rage at the recollection of Ganon, his filth, his treachery, his ill intent. The knowledge that Ganon suffered, trapped forever inside the Sacred Realm, soothed him. And yet he grieved, knowing the Gods would frown at his taking pleasure in his enemy's pain.

…Anger weakened him. He knew better than to be controlled by his emotions. It was always stronger near the alter, near the Temple of Time. Link could feel it, the rage oozing from Ganon's every pore, their mutual hatred feeding one another in the intensified energies of the Temple. If only he had time to pray, to cleanse his soul and beg Farore to forgive his petty vengeance.

He'd made a habit, since his return, of visiting the Temple once, sometimes twice, a week to honor his patron, Farore. Zelda prayed daily, he was certain, to her patron and the Goddess of Wisdom, Nayru. But Zelda was never allowed outside the palace walls. Instead, she used Hyrule Castle's chapel shrine for her confessions.

No, there wasn't time enough to pray. He could see through the windows overhead it was nearly dusk. But Link bowed his head and kneeled, promising to return once his business with the Princess was complete.

With one final backwards glance, Link made haste into town. The guards locked the castle gates at dark, and he did not fancy having to climb its perimeter walls to sneak inside.

The Market typically quieted at dusk. Most of the vendors were closed or closing. The men were on their way back from the fields, and the womenfolk were headed home to prepare meals for their husbands. Anyone who wandered at night at all went to drink, and with the recent destruction of the bar, all that remained of the Market nightlife was a fistful of guards and a back alley full of stray dogs.

…What awaited Link in town was anything but typical.

A crowd had gathered near the service road, a line of guards stationed at the gate. There was pushing, shouting, arms raised in protest, and a few of the men in back carrying torches and pitchforks. One of the guards was attempting some control, but his assurances were lost amidst the indistinct cries of the townspeople.

Link stayed on the outer edge of the mob, maneuvering himself over and around to the opposite side of the street. He wasn't sure what had happened or if the soldiers were even equipped to handle such a sizable crowd. What he did know was things were quickly spiraling out of control. If he could just get to the back alley, maybe he could slither his way over the service fence…

"Link!"

A shrill voice cried in the distance, though with all the people and the yelling, it was hard to tell from which direction it came.

"Link! Over here!"

Link finally spotted Clarice, pushing her way through the crowd towards him. She looked even rougher mingled against the day folk, shoving past farmers and housewives.

"Outta the way! Comin' through!" she cried.

Tough groups were second-nature to Clarice.

"Damn it to hell, Link!" she blasted at him, reaching out to drag him by the collar into a side street and away from the main road. "Where in the nine gates a hades 'ave you been? It's been mad as a hornet's nest 'round here! People hollerin' and cussin' and grabbin' their garden hoes and actin' a real fool!" She flailed her arms in hysterics.

"I wasn't gone _that_ long," Link defended. "But what happened? Things seemed okay this morning."

Clarice shook her head. "With all these fires and nonsense, the King went and quarantined the town! Nobody's allowed outside the walls after dusk. People went straight nuts, I tell ya'. Got the whole town scared out their wits."

Link's face darkened. "What about the service road?"

"Still open, but security's tight. They're checkin' everybody at the gates, and they've tripled the guard count." She shook her head. "Not that it'd matter much. There's no gettin' through that mess. Crowd's so thick ya' can't even blink without hittin' the guy in front of ya'."

"Then I'll sneak over the side." Link turned to leave.

Clarice yanked his arm. "What! You mad, boy? They got soldiers lined up and down that thing! There ain't no gettin' over! Not unless you wanna spend time in a nice, cold jail cell."

"Clarice, please," Link pleaded. "I have to try. It's important I get to the castle."

She sighed, shaking her head. "Look Link, I don't know what you got goin' on at the palace, but if yer so hellbent on gettin' over that gate, at least wait till dawn. People'll be cleared out by then, I'm sure. And right now, guards won't wanna talk to no one. Even you, Link." Clarice paused, looking him over head to toe. "Sides, you ain't slept in over a day, 'ave you?"

Link sighed tiredly, shaking his head.

She smirked. "Why don't ya' come back to my place and get some sleep? Me and the 'idiot' have a little place downtown. Not much, but it serves its purpose. You can crash downstairs for the night."

"But the Boniface…"

"Passed out drunk."

Link hesitated.

"Come on. You ain't got nowhere to go anyhows, now that the bar burned down. What was you plannin' to do? Sleep in the streets?"

Link lowered his eyes, his smile sheepish. "Camp out in the fields, actually."

Clarice snorted. "How absurdly _you_. Face it, yer comin' home with me and that's final."

Link had a mind to protest, but the look on Clarice's face said he'd be wasting breath. So he accepted defeat with a shrug and smiled. "Thanks Clarice."

* * *

The next morning Link woke bright and early. He hadn't wanted to admit he was tired, but the night's sleep had done a world of good, and he felt more refreshed than he had in days. It was true what Clarice had said that the flat they shared "wasn't much," but it was a bed and a roof over his head, so Link couldn't complain. He'd never been one to worry about where to sleep anyways. If worse came to worse, he simply slept outside, in the fields, or buried himself in a nice underground cave. He certainly couldn't rent a room, no more salary than he was paid at the bar, and most of the townspeople had barely enough to put up their own. Besides, Link had never been one for charity and he lived just as well out in the wild.

"So, off to the castle?" Clarice asked absently, rubbing his cheek with a cold washcloth. She'd been trying to hose him down all morning.

Link wiggled out of her grasp. "I'm clean, Clarice!" He wiped the dampness from his face. "And yes, I'm headed there now. No time to waste."

"Fine, fine…" she sighed.

While Clarice busied herself in the kitchenette, Link patted himself down, checking for his personal belongings. Gathering his sarong, his pixie dust, and his sword, he made for the door.

"Wait a second!" Clarice yelled and rushed to his side. "Ya' can't take that!" Her finger pointed to the Kokiri Sword nestled in his left boot. "Guards are checkin' for weapons at the gate. They'll never let ya' through with that thing." She extended her hand in a "give me" motion. "Leave it here. I'll keep it til ya' get back."

Link lowered his eyes to his sword. After the Ocarina of Time, the Kokirin Blade was his most precious possession. He didn't like the idea of leaving it behind. But Clarice was no fool when it came to the castle guards, and for that matter, neither was Link. With the hubbub of last night and heightened sense of security across town, he knew they would confiscate his blade in a heartbeat…and there would be no getting it back. Link would have to entrust his sword to Clarice for safekeeping.

"Alright," he finally conceded. "But Clarice…"

"I know, I know." She raised her right hand. "I swear on my life you'll get it back. All in one piece. I swear."

"It's important to me," he affirmed.

"On my life," she threw in for good measure.

He thought for a moment and nodded his consent. "I trust you'll keep it well, Clarice."

With a twitch of his heartstrings, Link withdrew the sword from his boot and placed it into Clarice's awaiting hands. She clutched it tight and held it to her chest.

"On my life," she repeated.

Link smiled. "I'll be back soon. Take care of you and the Boniface till I get back."

With a small wave, Clarice fared him goodbye. As she watched him leave, she unsheathed the blade just far enough to glimpse the metal beneath, its silvery surface glistening in the morning light.

Clarice had been right. The service road was open, but the guards were issuing pat-downs and weapon checks on everyone and everything that passed through. They searched his pouch, his boots, even made him remove his sarong to feel for any concealed knives or wrapped substances. It was insane.

When Link checked okay—they found only his clothes, his ocarina, and his shell blade shell on his person—the guards permitted him entry with the warning that he leave all "funny business" at the gate and mind his steps. Link thanked them quickly and proceeded on, slinking in-between a couple of wagon carts of cargo on their way to castle storage. It wasn't quite as busy as he was used to seeing at the beginning of the week, but at least the day-to-day activities had been largely unaffected, even with the Market on high alert.

He moseyed his way along the service road till he came to the guard crossing at the castle gate. It served as an inspection station to the carts and buggies delivering supplies to the palace, and as a popular tourist attraction for out-of-towners to admire the property. Link was pleasantly surprised to find that, despite the increase of security in town, the security on the castle grounds was as skeleton crew as always and would pose little threat. He followed his normal routine of sneaking in through the storage docks near the moat and into the courtyard where the Princess would be waiting.

And she was waiting, in that very spot, the same spot he had seen her all those years ago when he'd snuck into the courtyard as a young boy. Her hair fell in waves against her back, and a small smile played on her lips as she toyed with a tulip blossom, its petals as bright as candy apple red.

The dress she wore was red as well, but darker, like the color of blood. It was enticing and yet, strangely foreboding, and he wondered why, of all days, she had chosen to wear such a devilish garb. Yet he could not help the trill of excitement he felt at her bare shoulders and arms…

"Are you planning to sit with me some time today, Link?" The princess stood then, raising her hands to rest delicately against the silk frills of her dress. "Or was it your intention to stand there and stare?"

Link felt his face flush the color of her dress and wondered if his heated skin would be hot enough to burn himself a hole into the ground. It certainly couldn't be more embarrassing.

"I'm sorry, Princess." Link's voice broke, only adding to his embarrassment.

Zelda's giggle eased his thoughts as she grabbed his hand and pulled him to a seat. "I knew you would come today. I saw it," she said, tapping her head. "So I got up bright and early to wait. I even chose this special dress." Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "I'd ask what you think of it, but you've already answered that question."

Link's face flushed harder, if that were possible, though even he had to laugh when Zelda held the ruffles of her dress against his face to compare colors.

They stole a few moments for themselves, laughing, teasing, enjoying each other's company. But they both knew why Link was there, and they both knew time was against them.

"I have to apologize, Princess," Link finally spoke.

Zelda blinked. "For what, Link?"

"I tried to get a hold of you last night. But with all the guards and madness in town…" His voice trailed off.

Zelda shook her head, brushing his palm with her fingertips. "It's fine, Link. I know what's been happening in town. The guard count has been increased for the protection of the people. It makes things difficult for us, but anything is worth the safety of the Market. I'm just glad you're here now." She paused, interlocking their fingers. "…I heard about the bar. I'm so sorry."

Link said nothing, but brought her hand to his lips to place a chaste kiss against the skin.

Zelda melted a little against his touch, knowing what happened hurt him more than he was willing to show, but brought her attention to the matter at hand, bracing herself for the impending bad news. "So, what's the damage?"

"Well," Link started, pulling the shell blade from his pack. "I brought something to show you."

Link held the shell in front of him, prying apart the top and bottom for Zelda to peer inside.

"A shell blade shell?"

"Not the shell itself, but what it's carrying." He opened the sides a little wider for her to look. "Pixie dust."

"Pixie dust?"

"The night of the…fire," Link's voice stumbled a bit, "Clarice and I found this little Zoran kid wandering through the back alley. She was with another kid, carrying an old Zora's egg filled with pixie dust. Did you know Zoras give their children the baby eggs they hatch from as keepsakes? The girls use them as jewelry boxes and the males usually keep them to present prospective females with presents inside as a courting ritual…"

Zelda narrowed her eyes at Link, giving him the look she always gave him when his mind wandered off track. Link caught sight of her stare and cleared his throat. "Anyways, being a Zoran, I simply assumed she'd found it somewhere near Zora's Domain."

"Can I touch it?" Zelda interrupted to finger the smooth tips of the shell.

"Sure, it's harmless." Link watched Zelda prod the pixie dust with her pointer. "I found it a little strange that someone would be carrying around pixie dust, so I went to Lake Hylia to investigate. I noticed these little sparkles in the water near the rocks. It was too early in the day to be sunlight, so I swam across and found hundreds of these little pixie dust particles floating on the surface of the lake."

Zelda stopped her probing to look up at Link. "What is pixie dust anyway? I mean, where does it come from?"

"Pixies, of course," Link said matter-of-factly. "More specifically, it's the body excrement of a flying fairy."

Zelda snapped her hand from the shell blade, stumbling back against the grass. Her voice took on a disgusted tone. "The what?"

Link laughed. "'Body excrement.' But don't worry, it's not 'waste' in the traditional sense."

Zelda inspected her fingers with a scowl. "What other 'waste' is there?"

Link bemusedly shook his head. "Pixie dust is _debris waste_. It's the dirt and dust particles in the air that cling to the fairy's body mid-flight. Fairies are naturally luminous creatures, and in order to retain that luminosity, fairies shed their 'body waste' in little particles of 'dulled' light that we in the forest call 'pixie dust.'"

"Okay," Zelda said, looking somewhat disgusted still. "So what is the relevance of this exactly?"

"Tell me Zelda. How many fairies have you ever seen at one time, together?"

Zelda thought for a moment. "I don't know. One, two tops?"

"Exactly," Link nodded his head. "Fairies are solo-hunters. They don't travel in packs. To see more than a few fairies at a time happens only in fairy fountains or in the forest."

"Because they're indigenous to the forest," Zelda smugly added.

"Correct."

Zelda sat up properly, tilting her head towards the shell, but keeping a fair amount of distance between herself and the "waste." "So why are there hundreds of pixie particles floating around Lake Hylia? And what does any of this have to do with the fires in Hyrule Market?"

Link's forehead creased with seriousness. "That's the thing. Did you know fairies are a source of energy for the Kokiri? It's how the forest stays warm, even though the sun's rays could never penetrate the forest's think canopy. Their bodies radiate heat the Kokiri use for building fires, cooking food, and so on. It's this same radiant energy, or radiant heating, that gives fairies their glow. Essentially, a fairy is a flying orb of heat."

"Wait, wait." Zelda shook her head, hands in the air. "Are you suggesting that fairies, the same fairies designed by our _patrons, _Nayru and Farore," Zelda brought her hands to her heart, "as gifts to the peoples of Hyrule, are responsible for setting fire to the town? The same fairies you've traveled with through all your lifetimes and have in essence been your strongest and closest allies, aside from me?" She finished her sentence short of breath.

Link grasped Zelda's hands firmly in his own. "No. Absolutely not. Fairies are good and gentle creatures."

Zelda eyed him suspiciously. "But…?"

"But they naturally generate heat. One, two, even twenty of these guys could never generate the kind of heat you would need to set fire to a building. But if they accumulate in large enough numbers..."

The Princess averted her eyes, head facing the ground.

"I talked to a couple of Zorans that morning at the lake. They said their children were complaining that it gets cold at night. It's because nature is out of balance. And I'm willing to bet the same thing's happening to the Kokiri Forest." He brought a finger to Zelda's chin, lifting her gaze to meet his own. "Something is leading the fairies away from the forest and into the over world."

The Princess shot him an inquisitive look. "Something?"

Link nodded. "You said yourself fairies are indigenous to the forest. But it's not just their home, Zelda. They're apart of it. Just as the Zoras are part of the waters that flow through Hyrule Field. The Great Deku Tree controls the forest. …At least, he did, before he died."

"Now Saria, with the Spirtual Stone, control the forest."

Link nodded again. "Right. The Kokiri's Emerald was connected to the Great Deku Tree. When he died, the power to maintain balance in the forest was transferred to the stone. So essentially, it holds the power of the forest now, am I right?"

It was Zelda's turn to nod. "Yes. Saria, as the Sage of the Forest, works in conjunction with the stone to regulate the cycle of Hyrule's woodlands. They're interconnected. Everything in Hyrule is interconnected."

"So if someone say, stole the stone, would that imbue them with the power to control the forest?"

Zelda quirked a brow. "It's not that simple, Link. You would need a highly mystical creature, like the Great Deku Tree, to control it. That or another sage. It's not something you flip a switch and it works. And even at that, it would take strong magical powers to control even the most simplistic of organisms."

Link stared at her intently.

"Link," Zelda began, slowly. "Why did you say 'stole' the stone?"

Silence.

She repeated, more forcefully. "Link, what do you mean 'stole?'"

His eyes were everywhere but her.

"Oh dear."


End file.
